Battle of Eagles
by words without
Summary: Subtle Altair/Malik, AU for after the fight with fake!Robert. Altair arrives in Jerusalem to kill de Sablé, only to find that the Templar has made the first move...a move that threatens everything Malik has left.
1. Prologue

AN: This was (and is still being) written as an epically long one-shot, not a multi-chapter fic; keep that in mind for issues concerning pacing and the sad lack of dramatic chapter endings. It's also my first foray into the fandom...I hope I have the canon right at least, even if I'm not so up-to-date on the fanon. Updates will come quickly since, again, this is really a very long one-shot...much of it is already written, and I know exactly where it's gonna go. This is more of a prologe; the actual plot will show up next chapter, and will be much, much longer.

The slash, such as it is, is pretty subtle. Nothing to burn the eyes, anyway. Why isn't the paring name Maltair? Altmal just doesn't have the right flow.

Figured I'd throw in the Arabic as well, so that someone who can actually read it can tell me how badly google translate murdered the quote.  
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**_Battle of Eagles_**

"Who fears the ghost, sees it."  
اللي يخاف من العفريت يطلع له

He knows something is wrong from the moment the figure in front of him takes off its helmet. Its movements are too smooth, its features too slender. The man Altair has been tracking for months removes his mask and is not a man at all, but a woman. She stares at Altair triumphantly, the faintest of smirks on her lips.

"Surprised?" she asks. "Expecting to see someone else?"

"You are not—"Altair grips his sword tighter in his hands and hisses in frustration. "Where is your master?"

"Robert de Sablé?" The woman who isn't Altair's target folds her arms across her chest. Behind her, dying men huddle against gravestones and groan; the twisting spires of the fortress bordering the cemetery stab deep into the sky. "He is riding to Arsuf, to unite Templar and Saracen against a common threat. Against you."

"His plan will fail. The two sides will never work together. They despise each other far too much."

"You think so?" There is a slight, foreign lilt to her laughter when it comes. "Maybe. Or maybe they will look at all the men cut down by assassins and wonder. Maybe they have grown tired of having their fate decided for them by cowards in white who skulk in the shadows." She stares hard at Altair. If she fears him as the decider of her own fate, she doesn't show it.

"It is not I who makes such decisions," Altair says, "and it is not the Brotherhood who are the cowards. You work for men who would see all of humanity enslaved, for some mockery of peace."

"And you work for men who avoid the battlefield, preferring instead to slit the throats of weak, old men." She laughs again. The sound clashes with Jerusalem's church bells, which are all ringing furiously to warn the city of Altair's presence. "Does that make us equal?"

Altair thinks of the madhouse in Acre—Garnier's 'hospital', filled with desperate people driven insane. He thinks of the poisoned guests staggering in Abu'l Nuqoud's garden. He thinks of de Sablé, getting farther away with every passing second…

"Lie to yourself if you must. I have no need to justify myself to a stranger." Altair sheaths his sword, ignoring the surprise in the imposter's eyes. "And I do not have time for it, either. Robert de Sablé will not succeed in his mission."

"Oh? Do you think you can stop him on your own?" the woman asks. "How conceited of you, assassin."

"His plan is laid out before me. It is not conceit that assures me of victory, but your own foolishness in talking so freely."

"Foolishness, hm? Well, then." She shrugs at him, offers him a smile that's almost sweet. Her face is smooth and young-looking; he wonders for a second how old she is…how she came to be in Jerusalem, fighting cruel battles for crueler men.

"You might as well put an end to such _foolishness_. Kill me, the way you killed all the others. It will be one more death to haunt you before the end."

"No."

"Surely you aren't afraid to take the life of a woman. Come, pull out your blade and we'll—"

"You are not my target," Altair tells her. "If it is your wish to die, you will have to find someone else to grant it."

Impatience spikes in the imposter's eyes. "What if I choose to tell someone of your intentions to attack Robert?"

"It makes no difference. Obviously the guards in this city are already alerted to my presence. Tell whoever you'd like."

He turns away from her surprised protests, and with one smooth leap is over the fence surrounding them. The graveyard he leaves behind is newly adorned with bodies; the image of a young woman dressed in blood-drenched Templar's robes, surrounded by the corpses of the dead, lingers in his mind for a moment before fading away.

Altair is an assassin…he is used to death. He recognizes it for what it is and does not dwell on it for long. If all that he has seen in the past few months bothers him—if he still sometimes hears Kadar's scream echoing in his ears—then it does not show on his face or in his eyes. He hides both his emotions and his expressions behind the clean white of his cowl. He is an assassin, and he is used to seeing suffering walking behind him, like a shadow.

He heads for the Bureau, church bells clanging in his wake.


	2. Chapter 1

AN: The plot decides to show up. Next update will be next week sometime. Review please.

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**_Chapter One_**

All of Jerusalem seems deserted. Usually Altair's missions leave the area around him in turmoil, with frightened citizens fleeing from frustrated, over-eager guards. But nothing in this mission is working as usual, and Altair is several blocks away from the graveyard by the time he sees someone else on the street. Buildings loom on either side, casting the narrow alleyway into shadow, but he can still make out the glimmer of sun on metal that he knows so well. He pauses in place, pulls out his own sword, and waits.

The guard advances on him, uneasily, the way he might approach a leper. Altair is surprised he's even here; most of the city guards, and all of the Templars, took off once they saw 'Robert' overpowered.

"Assassin!" the guard yells. "You dare show your face?"

Altair takes note, without realizing: off-centered posture, uncertain expression, a sloppy handle on the blade. Poorly trained, poorly motivated. Used to hassling petty, starving thieves, not fighting man-to-man.

However ill-trained, the guard knows his duty: "You are a murderer! That will cost you your life!" He runs at Altair with his sword raised above his head.

And then Altair is moving, soaring, still not _quite_ realizing, not _quite_ aware, his body moving instinctively to the rhythm of death and aggression. His sword is steady in his hands and he swings, knocking the guard's blade aside; he swings again, _hard_; there is the crunch of steel against bone and a spurt of blood and a howl of pain that ends in a sob. The guard gives a feeble swing of his own weapon, but his left hand has been almost entirely severed and the blade slices only through air. Altair pulls back, sword painted red, and slashes and pulls back and slashes and—

And he is _alive_, all elegance and skill, and the guard is curled up at his feet, moaning, dying, and Altair feels no regret, for he has changed from who he once was, and he is certain now of what the right path is, and he is redeemed.

He sheds blood with the power of an animal, with talons made of steel.

* * *

The guard is dead. Altair wipes the blood off his sword with the edge of his robe and puts it away. He looks around. There is still pure energy pouring through his veins, but it's beginning to fade.

He moves to the end of the alleyway, which connects with a second road every bit as narrow and dark, draped with stone buildings. The second street is also empty, save for an old beggar woman, who presses herself against a pile of crates and gazes at Altair in terror. No doubt she heard the guard's cry of pain.

(The people Altair fights for are only ever terrified when they see him. The citizens he rescues from the corrupt city guardsmen thank him, but always in nervous tones. When he assassinates businessmen and politicians for thievery and murder, the people they harmed are never relieved. They turn their anger onto Altair instead.

He isn't bothered by it, but it's also something he never forgets.)

The beggar woman opens her mouth to scream, but Altair is running before she has a chance to make a sound. He grabs for a brick sticking out of a low wall and pulls himself up with strong, steady arms, his robes billowing out behind him. He grabs onto another protruding brick, then swings himself over to a small window ledge. He uses the window frame to pull himself to his feet, standing now on the ledge, waiting only a second to balance himself before making the next leap, to a ledge slightly higher up.

Instinctively he climbs, pulling himself onto the building's flat roof. Then he runs, leaping the gaps between buildings, climbing to reach higher rooftops, until he is resting by the chimney of the tallest structure around. Nearby, on the same surface, is a small roof garden—little more then a metal box, with scalloped designs on the corners and tattered, yellow curtains hanging down the sides. Altair pushes a curtain out of the way and slips inside; the amount of dust inside the box assures him that it's been a while since anyone else has passed by. He leans against the side, waiting out the faint aching in his arms, and thinks.

Altair has always felt safer higher up: from his current position, he can draw back a curtain and see all of Jerusalem stretched out before him, bathing in the afternoon sun. He can see the golden dome of the greatest mosque glistening; he can see the city's largest synagogue, which he'd once left ringed with bodies as he darted away.

(Altair has similar images in his mind of Damascus, of its many mosques and their high-reaching minarets. He's even seen Acre from high above, though many of that city's tall buildings are nothing but rubble…though there's not much to see of that place now but ravens feasting on bodies, and miserable hovels squatting in the shadows of crumbling churches.)

All assassins are taught to use buildings to their advantage, but Altair in particular relishes the climbing and leaping, the great heights. It feels natural to him: rising above the world, the wind rushing past his face, bringing him reminders in faint sounds and smells…

Sudden silence shakes Altair out of his thoughts—the church bells have stopped ringing. A good sign, or bad? Have the Templars given up searching for him? With Robert out of the city, and safely out of reach, have they ceased to be concerned by the assassin's presence? Or is it some sort of trap, to lure him out of the shadows…?

_Either way, I do not belong here,_ he decides. _I will inform Malik of what has happened, and then I will ride to Arsuf and end Robert's scheming._

Altair climbs out of the roof garden and walks along the roof edge, toward the Assassin's Bureau; he knows how to reach it by rooftop as easily as he does by street level, and it isn't very far.

But he does not look forward to what awaits him there.

Malik's forgiveness is something he's wanted for a while now…for months, as he learned and wondered, as Kadar's eager face popped up more frequently in his dreams. To have been granted it so readily is a shock, and a relief. But Malik is lying, to Altair and to himself, if he thinks he has completely given up thoughts of vengeance for thoughts of peace. After all, Altair, who hardly knew Kadar, who considered him to be an annoyance at best, still dreams about his death. Malik has always had a temper, and he was always so close to his brother…

Altair does not want to know what Malik dreams about at night.

_He will not be pleased to know that de Sabl__é__ has eluded us again, and continues to walk freely. Nor will the Master…that is, if he is even surprised. Lately it seems as though nothing that occurs on my missions is a shock to him. Perhaps Malik…_

He shakes his head. A foolish idea, to think that Malik might feel the same hard-to-place uneasiness concerning Al Mualim's behavior, his reactions to Altair's discoveries. Their master's moods are always enigmatic…and Malik isn't the one who has strayed so far off the assassin's chosen path.

_No doubt Al Mualim's actions make sense to one who has not fallen as far as I have. Even with my full rank restored, there are still those who doubt me. When I am finished redeeming myself, perhaps I too will understand._

The ivy-covered trelliswork that is the Bureau's roof appears before Altair, on the other side of a busy street. It's normally a busy street, anyway…right now it is as ghostly as the rest of the city. The merchants' stalls are all abandoned, making them a prime target for thieves, but there's no one rifling through the unprotected goods.

_Even the criminals have been scared away by the bells_. _Is my reputation so fearsome?_

Altair strides to the edge of the building and prepares to make the leap. It's one he has made any countless number of times; he can jump it easily, without thought. He bends at the knees and starts to spring forward—

And stops. Something is _wrong_.

He looks around, eyes narrowed. There is something…some sense…Altair has always trusted his instincts, they are an assassin's lifeblood…and right now they're screaming that something's not right…

But nothing seems out of place. The empty streets are a result of the chaos of the assassination attempt. There aren't even any guards lurking the rooftops, at least none that Altair can see. Everything is still, and calm, and quiet…

Altair makes the leap, landing lightly onto the trelliswork. The hole that leads into the Bureau is, as always, partially disguised by ivy, but he still feels strangely exposed as he walks over to it and drops down.

A loose tile clacks under his feet as he lands. He straightens up, studying the anteroom he's fallen into with caution. The pillows that he rests on after missions are where they always are, in a messy heap by the corner. The fountains are still burbling softly. Nothing looks out of place…but there's still something…Altair's eyes fall on a blotchy, russet stain in the center of the room and he tries to remember if it's always been there…

It's silly, but he feels relieved to see a figure in the doorway to the main room. He takes a step towards it, wondering what else he was expecting. The figure will be who it always is. Malik.

_No._

Altair's eyes are drawn to the red cross painted on the figure's baggy white shirt—_a Templar_. Instantly his sword is out and he is running at the enemy, but several other people appear in the doorway and none of them is Malik—

Altair has no choice but to stop mid-charge. There are four Templars facing him now, all with swords drawn; there are also two orange-robed city guards, who move silently to block the way in. Altair has fought battles against far worse odds, but he does not move to strike…his head is filled with an odd buzzing…

_Templars? In the Assassin's Bureau? Have we been betrayed?_

"Surprised, heathen?" The voice comes from one of the Templars, whose face is hidden by a metal helmet. His accent is thick and unpleasant.

"How did you find this place?" Altair demands. "Where is the one who guarded it?"

"You mean the cripple?" The Templar folds his arms. "He is with Robert._"_

"Robert de Sablé is here?" The buzzing is gone. Altair advances, threatening, sword gripped tight in both hands. "I thought he left the city."

"You were told he left the city to keep you unaware. It would be bad for you to charge in here already prepared."

"An assassin is always prepared." Without waiting for a response, Altair darts forward. He strikes the Templar, thrusting cold metal through flesh and belly. The Templar screams and spasms; when Altair yanks his sword out it makes a slimy sucking noise, and bits of entrails cling to its sharp edge.

A second Templar yells and runs at him, but Altair swings around and hits first, carving a line of red down his chest. The man staggers back, dropping his weapon, and doubles over with a long, low moan.

The last two Templars don't move. The city guards mutter nervously to each other. Altair points his dripping sword at the injured man.

"You will answer my questions," he snarls. "How did you find this place? What was your purpose in coming here?"

"Uah…please…!"

"Answer me, and I will give you the courtesy of a quicker death."

"You are…to accompany us to de Sablé_…_The cripple is with him…to ensure that you will come…_"_

_ "_A hostage?" Altair looks at him, disbelieving. Malik is intelligent and sarcastic and deadly, with one arm or two. For him to have been taken as a hostage…and by _Robert_ of all people…

"He knows you are responsible for…the deaths of the other men. He wants to…to force you out of the shadows…!"

Altair takes a menacing step forward. "Did you expect me to give in to de Sablé's schemes so easily? Why should I walk into what is obviously a trap? My mission is to kill your master, and I am no idiot."

"But…the hostage…!"

"Malik would never presume to put his life before the cause. He is part of the Brotherhood. We do not fear death."

"Tell me, then. What _do_ you fear?"

The last voice comes from one of the other Templars—the only one not covering his face with a metal mask. He eyes Altair with smugness in his pale blue eyes.

"I assure you, the decision to follow us or not is entirely yours," he says lightly. "Robert made it clear that we were not to force you. Come, if you wish…or ignore us and condemn the captive. Either way we will accept your choice.

"But," he sighs, "if you do choose not to come, then perhaps you could spare a moment to pity the _brother_ you are leaving behind. I certainly do not envy him…he has already lost an arm, and yet there is so much left for him to lose…Pity him, if there's anything human inside you that still knows how."

Altair is silent. He dips his head, so that his cowl covers his eyes.

"You assassins are cruel beyond words. To leave one of your own to suffer such torment…surely you don't think that death is all that awaits the cripple if you turn your back now? He won't be so lucky, I'm afraid." The Templar shakes his head, smiling. "My master is also no idiot. The captive will face tortures unimaginable…although they tell me you're the one who executed Garnier, so perhaps you _can _imagine. You saw the sort of fun he was having, playing sick games with lepers and madmen. If that's the sort of fate you wish for one of your own…but perhaps your kind does not fear agonizing pain, either—"

"_Enough_."

Altair's sword gleams as it bites into the side of the man's throat, leaving the Templar's smug expression forever frozen to his face. The wound is clearly a fatal one, but once the body has collapsed Altair still plunges his weapon deep into the man's chest. Flecks of blood cover his hands; he looks at them and is satisfied.

Behind Altair comes a second dull _thud_, as the injured soldier's strength finally gives way. The last Templar utters something in guttural French that can only be a curse. The two city guards tremble where they stand.

The assassin sheathes his sword, this time without bothering to wipe it clean. The front of his robes are splattered with streaks of drying blood; the brownish-red almost seems to glare, surrounded as it is by clinical white.

"If Robert wishes to be slain in the open rather than in the shadows, I will oblige him," Altair tells the remaining Templar calmly. "Where is he?"

"You…you are not supposed to know," the man stammers. "I am to lead you, instead. Robert does not want to give you the chance to plan ahead of time…he wants to face you in the open, it's why he is making the first strike…"

"Fine, then." Altair gestures towards the rooftop exit. "Go, and I will follow."

The Templar shakes his head. "Your weapon…"

Altair narrows his eyes. "Enough of this foolishness," he hisses. "Do not forget, I follow you to accomplish my mission. It makes no difference to me how your master chooses to die, only that today ends with his blood pooling on the ground in front of me." He gestures again, impatiently. "Go."

The Templar reluctantly moves forward, his hand resting in an obvious way, against the side of his waist. "If you mean to stab me while my back is turned, you will regret it," he warns.

Altair gives him a mocking smile. "You needn't worry," he says, but his words are soaked in poison.

(As he turns to follow the Templar the main room comes into view. The jar of incense Malik always keeps lit is shattered on the floor, most of the bookshelves have been overturned…and there is a dead body sprawled on the counter, dried blood ringing the nose and mouth. A throwing dagger is buried to the hilt in the dead man's left eye; a second one protrudes in a similar fashion from the center of the forehead.

Malik did not allow himself to be captured without a fight; Altair is reassured by the thought without knowing why.)


	3. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two_**

It's a strange sight they make: an assassin, draped in flowing, blood-smeared robes, being led down a main avenue by a Templar and his lackeys. Altair has realized by now that the empty streets are a result of Robert's scheming; he can easily imagine the chaos caused as his soldiers cleared the markets, chaos masked some by the church bells Altair had assumed tolled only for him.

But as empty as the road might be, the assassin has no doubt that the city is watching him from windows and doorways. So he all but struts as he walks; the arrogance he's been trying to temper the past few months bleeds from his every pore. He wears his cowl so that all but his mouth is hidden by fabric, and his mouth is fixed in the slightest of smirks.

An assassin is always ready, no matter the situation. Altair feels the comforting weight of the blade strapped to the underside of his wrist, and pictures plunging it into Robert de Sablé…into his throat, his eyes, smashing it into the back of his skull. He wonders what damage Malik might already have caused. Unlike many of the bureau _Dai_, Malik has kept his assassin's edge: Altair pictures the dead man at the bureau with the dagger in his eye.

(Unlike many of the _Dai,_ Malik had been given his title as a consolatory prize. He had been an assassin on par with Altair, once. Even though he'd technically been one rank behind, he was Altair's only true competition, able to wield a blade with grace and cunning and stealth. Some had even judged him the better fighter; despite his bad temper, Malik was known for staying cool-headed on missions while haughty Altair stormed around.

Now Malik has lost his freedom along with everything else, stuck as he is in the bureau, forced to use his talents to help his able-bodied once-brethren. He has been given a position for old men, for the second-best…an honored position, but one thrust down on those who can no longer compete.

Altair knows without asking that Malik still has his white robes, his short blade, his sword. Knows that Malik must tend to that sword carefully, though the _Dai_ are not expected to fight. Knows that Malik, on restless nights, must spend hours staring at those relics of a life ripped away…must drive himself crazy with longing and hate…)

"We are almost there, assassin." The Templar, when he speaks, sounds more confident then he did before; Altair glances from the corner of his eyes to see that the city guards have vanished, and three more Templars now follow in their stead.

_He feels more secure with more of his own around. Robert will be surrounded by an army's worth of men._

The Templars turn a corner, and lead Altair down a muddy, unpaved road. Then they turn again, and again; at one point they even seem to turn around and retrace their steps. Altair keeps silent, but inside he is triumphant.

_Trying to disorient me will only serve to drain their strength. What man recognizes these streets better than an assassin? There are no roads that I do not know._

And should he somehow lose his way, he needs only find a building and climb, reach for the heavens, where he will recognize all the world…

The building they finally come to a halt in front of is not what Altair had been expecting. He'd assumed he was being led to a fortress, perhaps the huge one he'd done battle by earlier. Instead they're facing a nondescript, two-story structure made of white stone—not particularly noticeable or unusual. Still…Altair looks up, judging the distances, and notes that the immense fortress from before isn't really all that far away. It looms over this section of the city, its twisting towers decorated with bright flags.

"Robert is in here?" he asks one of the Templars. The man nods.

Altair smiles.

It isn't his sword he pulls out this time, but his curved, shorter blade. Before any of the Templars can even think to react he's whirling around, slashing out with the lighter blade, darting from opponent to opponent without pause. In the space of three seconds two Templars drop to the ground: one with his throat slashed wide open, one on his knees, howling with pain, his hands clamped over his face. A gash crosses from one ear to the other, mangling both eyes in the process; blood pours from between the man's fingers, and he screams from behind a curtain of red.

The assassin takes a moment to readjust himself. The other two Templars are frozen in place, but one looks ready to yell…the yell becomes a gurgle as a well-aimed throwing dagger hits him in the throat. He falls; Altair is busy slicing open the skull of the blinded man, finally silencing his cries.

The last Templar—by chance, the same one that led him from the bureau—presses himself back against the building, terror written out on his face. "No," he almost begs, "I'm supposed to lead you to Robert…"

"Which you have done. Your usefulness is ended now."

Altair darts forward, faster than the Templar can prepare for, and shoves his left hand—hidden blade and all—into the soft flesh of the man's throat. The Templar grabs uselessly at the assassin's hands, at his sleeves…at whatever he can clutch with shaking fingers. But it's all in vain; when Altair frees his blade, the man caves to the ground with eyes rolled back into his skull.

There is silence, then. There are no scared citizens, no church bells, no guards. Nothing but a nondescript building, and Altair, and a promise of violence. He tries the door: it's unlocked. He moves inside slowly, sword drawn, eyes narrowed against the darkness, seeing—

Nothing.

It's a wide, empty room…no furniture, no light (the one small window is boarded up), and no people. Just dust and cobwebs, and brutal silence. No sign of other Templars, of de Sablé, of Malik.

As Altair looks around he can't help but wonder if he killed his 'guides' too quickly…if after all he's witnessed in the past months he's still acting rash and foolhardy. He paces the floor, frustrated—carelessness is an assassin's downfall but it still _clings_ to him, and it's always _Malik_ who seems to bare the brunt of Altair's bad decisions, and that doesn't make sense, that isn't_ fair_…

He stops his pacing, abruptly. One of the floor's wooden boards shifts slightly when he puts his full weight on it. Could just be loose or decayed, could be nothing.

But when he kneels down and is able to strip away board after board, without much effort, he knows it's something. A narrow stone staircase appears, slanted downwards towards a dark passageway…it's all so dramatic that Altair rolls his eyes.

And then he's moving down into the tunnel, sword still at the ready, heading for Robert with his robes already layered in gore and dust.

And that is so fitting. And killing the Templars wasn't hasty at all (it'd be too hard to defend himself from them in such a cramped passage). And Altair is almost eager as he strides down, abandoning the city for the far below.


	4. Chapter 3

AN: Oh, look, more fighting. Yey. Big thanks to **skywalker05 **for the fight-scene help.

Malik is my favorite character in AC1. Therefore, he's the character I beat up the most.

Reviews are loved.

_**

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Chapter Three**_

The eagerness doesn't last. Altair hates being forced so deep underground.

He can _feel_ the weight of the city above him, pressing against his skull. He knows it's stupid, and he fights past it, but _still_—all the world seems wrapped around him, around this tunnel that won't end. There's enough air, but it's dusty against his lungs. There are lit torches every so often, but they cast crazy shadows against the dim light, and for once Altair does not trust the dark spaces in his path.

The torches mean he's going the right way…means he's being expected. But the tunnel means he's disoriented in a way he could never be above-ground. Altair has never longed so much to leap from a high rooftop, to scale the towers beyond…

At the end of the passageway, finally, he sees another set of crumbling stone stairs. He pauses at the bottom of them and listens, eavesdropping in that careful way that only a master assassin can manage. He hears slight murmurs: there are men above, and plenty of them. Altair has been led into a nest of wasps.

He glides up the stone steps, silent, sword at the ready. The stairs lead him to another, more obvious trap door; he opens it carefully, so that it won't creak. The room it opens out into is tiny, dusty, windowless—more a closet than anything else. But there's a wooden door, with strips of sunlight pooling from underneath…

Altair allows himself one final moment to shake the weight of the city off his back. He is _above_ again, on ground he understands. The enemy is taunting him and the Brotherhood is threatened. This is so obviously a trap, and he is walking right into it.

Altair has never felt so assured.

He opens the door.

Sunshine strikes him. He tilts his head, draping his cowl against his face both to shield his eyes and cause the desired effect. (Where he's looking, what he's thinking: these are left unknown.) The fabric does not hamper his line of sight; it's made of a special fabric that's perfectly see-through, at least for the wearer. Altair has only to wait the split second that his eyes take to adjust from darkness to daylight. Then he sees, and is ready.

The door leads to a small stone courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by immense, delicately carved walls. There are turrets and pitched roofs; it looks nominally like a mosque, which would be a fitting place for de Sablé. Altair has shed blood in churchyards, in mosque gardens, on the tops of synagogues…he does not look for salvation in holy places, and he is not dismayed to see them vandalized. But still, the European would be delighted at the symbolism—filling the sacred city with the torture and murder of its white-cloaked protectors. It wouldn't be at all a surprise for Robert to choose a mosque as the location for his final fight.

The walls are bare but for their engravings, and for an iron balcony that runs all the way around. Altair glances at that balcony, sees several swarthy archers peering over the ramparts, looking directly at him. They've been waiting.

They're dressed in the orange and red of city guards, but still they turn their arrowheads toward someone who is supposedly one of their own. Their eyes flicker back and forth to their neighbors: _give the signal, give me a chance. _Altair knows he could scale those walls in a second, could have his hands around tender throats, could watch foolish men bare their soft belly-weight onto his knife—

But he must be still. He looks straight ahead and sees a grand pair of double-doors, metal ones, painted and carved. And in front of the doors is not the army Altair was expecting, not the crowd of Templars eager to slice flesh from bone.

There is only one man, standing there. He wears the robes of a Templar, and he has his sword strapped to his waist. He is almost smiling; his eyes, anyway, dance with laughter.

Altair steps out of the shadows. Robert de Sablé widens his grin.

"Assassin," he calls, his thick French accent mangling his words. "So you did decide to come."

Altair squares his shoulders. He wonders, does de Sablé recognize him as the failure from Solomon's Temple? Has he realized that the killer of his brethren is the assassin he let escape?

"I didn't think honor meant anything to you heretic dogs," Robert says. "Finally you come and face me like a man."

"You are hardly one to talk of honor, Robert." Altair strides forward a few steps. Again, he lets his arrogance show in his swagger, but inside he is on edge. This man has eluded the assassin's blade so many times…

"When have I ever done something dishonorable?" Robert spreads his arms wide. "I do not slay men in cold blood, from behind."

"No. Instead you take them hostage, use them as pawns in your own cowardly games."

"I located my enemy's headquarters, and I attacked. Why not make use of what I found there?

"You," Altair says, "would see all of the Holy Land trapped under your dominion. You would deny the people their free will. Your idea of a peaceful world is one where everyone must obey the Templar's whims."

"You are so blind. What is it that _your_ order stands for, I wonder?" Robert gazes at Altair with a strange sort of amusement. "And do you and your leaders stand for the same things…?"

"I did not come here to answer your riddles," Altair says coolly. "You will release your captive, and then I shall end your waste of a life."

"Just like that, hm? You must be in a rush, heretic." Robert shrugs. "Is it so wise to kill your enemy without interrogating them first? That is not how I was trained."

"I have nothing to ask of you. My master has ordered your death—"

"And so of course the dog must obey its master."

Altair allows an almost imperceptible pause. Then he narrows his eyes beneath his cowl. "It is strange. Some of the men I have killed these past months made me wonder, made me question my reasoning."

His voice drops, to barely above a hiss. For a second he shifts his head so that his eyes are visible…there is something dangerous in them now.

"I do not question the need for your end. I have seen your cruelty firsthand, and I will not regret ending it. In trying to convince me otherwise you waste your breath and my patience."

"Fine. Try and kill me then. _If _you even can." Robert lets one hand drop to the hilt of his blade. "But then you'll never learn how I found your little Jerusalem hovel. The Templar Order goes further than you know."

"I have killed eight of you already. Your grip on this land grows weaker with every blow."

"So you think." Robert raised his voice. "You assassins are fools. You are sheep for the slaughter! Every man you killed only made us stronger. Those eight men were cowards and traitors—none of them were truly loyal, or deserving, and so you conveniently rid us of them. I should thank you, I suppose!"

Altair can't quite keep the irritation out of his voice. "You accuse me of being one of your pawns? Then why you are about to be run through on the weapon that took the lives of your _cowardly_ friends?"

"I admit, it was a shock to learn you were after my head," the Templar mutters. "It shouldn't have been. The two of us agreed to remove the faulty elements…apparently he decided to betray me in the process…"

"The two of you?" Altair tightens his grip on his sword. "There is another?"

"As I said." Robert smiles thinly. "You are a fool."

"Who is this tenth man?" Altair demands. _Does Al Mualim know of this?_

"Worried, heretic? I don't blame you. He knows so much. It was he who gave me the location of your bureau. Originally I was meant to storm it with my men once you'd done our work for us in killing the eight…to end your little murderers' nest once and for all. We were to work together in saving this land." He curses, in low and angry French. "But it appears he had a change of heart and sent you to kill me, as well. Such a backstabbing piece of slime…!"

The Templar steadies himself. "But he is as arrogant as the rest of you. He forgot—the _imbécile_! I know how your order of maggots works. Did he think I would sit around and wait to be stabbed in the back? Did he forget I knew the bureau's location?"

Robert's eyes fall on Altair and he chuckles. "If you weren't such an idiot, you'd appreciate the humor of it all. I despise your kind as much as you despise mine, and yet we were both betrayed by the same man."

"I was betrayed by no one," Altair says softly. "And here your lies will end."

He seems almost to fly across the courtyard; his feet touch the ground so lightly it's as if they never land at all. When he's close enough to Robert he steadies himself and swings—and hears the loud clang of two swords being whacked together. The impact shudders all the way up his arms. Robert is bent slightly at the knee, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowed in concentration. With a grunt he forces his knees straight and pushes the assassin back.

Altair rocks on his heels, and launches himself at his target once more, this time pointing his blade toward the center of Robert's stomach. But again the Templar blocks his blow, knocking his hands aside. Before Altair has a chance to guarantee his footing Robert is on the offensive…and when he strikes, he strikes hard.

Altair's arms shudder again with the force of the blow, but he's managed to block it and that's all that matters. They almost seem to take turns, darting and dodging, neither one able to make steel connect with flesh.

_His swings are wide,_ the assassin notes in his methodical way. _His grip on the blade is strong, but his stance leaves him open. _

Altair takes the initiative and allows Robert to raise his blade before moving forward—

But de Sablé reaches out and snares him by the front of his tunic; his wide posture was a taunt to bring Altair in close, and it worked. Smirking, he begins to twist his wrist, to push the assassin off balance and stab him while he stumbles…

Altair grabs his wrist and pulls it, straining it, using Robert's own momentum to turn him around: now Altair's the one grabbing onto Robert, and with not a little vindictive pleasure he kicks de Sablé in the backside to send him stumbling away.

Normally he'd follow the kick with a swing, but his grip on his sword was weakened by his one-armed block of Robert's grab. Instead he moves back somewhat, cursing silently.

_Foolish, to get so close, to give him the opportunity…_

Breathing hard, Altair flexes his sword hand, and is surprised to notice a cut, small but deep enough to bleed, running along his knuckles. When did Robert manage to graze him? Altair isn't sure, and that irritates him. The Templar is fast…

The Templar is on his feet again. He looks rather annoyed himself, with beads of sweat dotting his forehead. "What's the matter, assassin?" he taunts. "Not doing so well in a fair fight? Maybe you miss your cowardly way of…"

"You are hardly overflowing with ability, yourself," Altair says evenly. "But then, this is hardly the fair fight you claim it to be, or does your concept of fair involve archers standing ready to aid you against one man?"

"The archers? What of them? Have they made any moves against you so far?" Robert smirks. "They're insurance, to make sure you don't try and flee. You won't lose yourself in the crowd today, _hérétique._ Today you will face what you have caused."

"By the time today ends I will have caused your schemes to fall apart. I will have stained the ground with your insides, and I will have ended your designs upon the people of the Holy Land." Altair shrugs. "Those consequences, I think I can live with."

"Can you? Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, the savior of all the earth…yes, you'd like to think so, wouldn't you? Such pleasant fantasies you have."

The jolt of hearing his name—his _full_ name, Altair the Son of None—on the Templar's lips is a brutal one. _How?_ Altair wants to demand. _Who told you? An assassin is invisible and alone, known by no one. _

_ (_The Son of None, and when ultimately he dies it will be as if he never was.)

_Who told you? Who gave to your foul voice what is meant to be mine?_

"Yes, assassin, you are quite the dreamer. In your head they've no doubt torn down the mosques and built your statues in the ruins. You must be a deity, if to no one other than yourself."

"Cease your prattle, so that we may end this."

"Wait. First I want to crush your expectations." Robert licks his lips. "First I want to show you what you've really caused."

He lifts and waves a hand, malice in his eyes as he shouts something in French, and the doors behind him are pushed open. Two Templars step out, and in between them is—

Malik.

The _Dai's_ eyes are blindfolded; the Templar behind him has a hand on his shoulder, steering him in the right direction. Malik's dark robes of office are missing, revealing the white tunic he wears underneath; his face is scratched in several places, and he favors one ankle heavily as he walks. As always, Altair's eyes are drawn to the empty air by Malik's side: the nothing where his arm should be. As always, he is reminded.

And then he looks into Robert's smug eyes and is nothing but pissed off.

"I was going to tie my captive's hands behind his back, at least," Robert drawls, "Until I saw who it was. Amusing, really. I was expecting your bureau leaders to be old wise-men. Instead you give the job to cripples. Is your brotherhood wanting for men who are fully armed?"

Altair glances at Malik's face. What expression isn't blocked by the blindfold is impassive; no doubt he's heard nothing but insults since being brought here. The Templars lead him to just beyond their master, and then force him to his knees.

"This is delightful," says Robert. "Such a reunion. The Templar, the assassin…" His jaw tightens. "And the man who stole from me the Piece of Eden."

(_So,_ Altair thinks, _he does know who his captive is.)_

"I didn't realize his arm was so damaged it needed to be removed. Amputations are grim…such a lot of sawing through muscle and bone." De Sablé shrugs. "Better than the alternative, I suppose. The other fool I fought that day took a lot of steel to his intestines."

There is a very noticeable silence. Altair fights past the rage clouding his vision, fights past the urge to give into his enemy's taunts. Dramatic gestures won't bring Kadar back from the dead, nor protect his name from insults and dishonor. He knows that. But even as he calms himself, he glances over at the only real family Kadar had…

Malik, despite his temper, is not easily riled by opponents; as an assassin he stayed cool while wielding his weapon, saving his sneering for Altair alone. But now he stiffens and tilts his head toward the ground, rage apparent in his clenched fist.

Seeing Robert happily stepping on Malik's exposed nerves infuriates Altair more than anything else has so far. He has this outrageous urge to comfort a man who has only recently been able to stand his presence, a man he thought he hated for so much of both their lives…

What can he possibly say?

"Malik," he begins. "Are you--?"

Suddenly Robert advances, poised for a strike that Altair blocks without much effort. Still, he does fall back a step.

"Hold, assassin," de Sablé says. "You have to win the battle before you get the prize."

Altair clenches his fists around the hilt of his sword. "You coward," he hisses.

At the sound of his voice, Malik's head jerks up. He stares in vain at Altair's general direction, pulling away from his captor's hands.

"Altair, you…" he starts to say, his voice far more strained and soft than usual. But before he can finish, the guard standing behind him clamps a hand around his shoulder and _pushes_, knocking him off-balance. With only one hand to try and catch himself with, and without the use of his eyes, Malik hits the ground hard. There's a crunching sort of noise that promises bruises blossoming across his shoulder blades. There's a tinge of humiliation in the pained grunt that escapes his lips.

The guard snickers.

"Keep silent," he orders Malik. The _Dai's_ lips twist into a nasty sneer, but he says nothing as he forces himself back to his knees. Dirt clings to his already-ripped tunic, and is smeared across the side of his face.

Robert looks pleased. "So," he laughs to Altair, "you'll have to tell me what uses you've found for an one-armed wreck—"

But the Son of None is _flying_.

With more strength than he's ever felt before, he lunges for de Sablé, and his blow is so strong that Robert curses and nearly drops his sword. The Templar is having trouble blocking the blows this time: his arms strain to hold back Altair's fury. The two men parry and twist and the air is full of clashing metal—

Altair pushes against Robert, his blade held sideways, leaning in close, with a snarl: "How dare you touch what is meant to be mine." And not even Altair is sure what he means.


	5. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

The battle warps in and around itself, endless. A living thing in its own right…

Back and forth across the courtyard the assassin drives his prey, feet scuffing the ground, kicking up dust. Malik leans forward again, straining to make out from sounds alone the direction of the battle.

Robert shows the skill of a high-ranked soldier; the frenzied pace of the fighting has not yet worn him out. He swings and manages to connect with Altair's sword in such a way that the blade is nearly wrenched from its master's hand. But when he goes to press the advantage Altair ducks, leans in close, punches upward with his left fist.

The punch sends Robert reeling backwards. He stumbles and loses his balance, sitting down hard. In disbelief he stares up at Altair: there is already a swollen mass rising by his jaw.

This time Altair has no intention of waiting for Robert to get back to his feet. With a steady sword he glides forward, just in time to hear the Templar bark out something in French, and—

One of the grim-faced archers from above lets loose with an arrow before the words are fully out of Robert's mouth. Altair is fast but the archer is trained: the arrow bites deep into his right side. Red-brown blooms stain his tunic almost instantly.

He staggers back, clutching his side, the color draining from his face. Without meaning to he gasps…

Malik hears it. "Altair," he shouts, "What…" The Templar behind him jabs him with the back of his sword.

Robert rises to his feet, no traces of pleasure left on his face. He rubs at his swollen cheek, scowling. "Now you are finished," he snarls, glaring at the assassin, who's bent over, an arm drawn across his waist. "One way or the other I am going to kill you-!"

Then Altair straightens up.

"Try harder, then," he suggests. He glances out from under his cowl and his eyes shine. "Right now your words are empty."

Robert's eyes widen. "You are…" he breathes.

Calmly, Altair reaches down with one hand and yanks out the arrow. He pulls it so fast a spurt of blood jets out, but to judge from his expression it leaves all the pain of a splinter. The bloody arrow head drops to the ground. Robert stares at it, bug-eyed.

Altair moves closer. What suffering movement brings is hidden by the cowl; were it not for the blood and a certain tightness to the jaw, it would be hard to tell he was injured at all. He strides in Robert's direction as if nothing is wrong.

The Templar guarding Malik murmurs, "That arrow should have sent him to his knees. Somehow he dodged it. Even so, it should have hurt him…even a flesh wound is deadly if deep enough. How can he still be wielding a blade…?"

De Sablé is infuriated. "Bastard," he swears, and his voice cracks at the edges. "_Well_?" He waves a hand in the air, at the archers. "What are you waiting for? Kill him!"

The archers, equally surprised at the tenacity of their opponent, hesitate in drawing fresh arrows against the bow—and that is what saves Altair from a grim and messy end. He takes the split-second pause and uses it to _run…_

For the nearest pillar. He takes a running jump and hurls himself upward, fingers finding minuscule cracks and indentations. Climbing is one of his talents, after all. He scales the pillar with ease.

"Bring him down already!" Robert is screaming. "Bastard!"

Finally, the arrows come. Most miss (Altair is at such an angle that only the three archers on the opposite wall have any chance at hitting him), but the assassin knows that he cannot linger where he is for much longer. He needs to reach the top of the pillar, get onto the balcony, where he can dance around the missiles; in his current, precarious position, one arrow is all it would take to send him crashing down.

His side burns. Altair ignores it.

One of the archers stands at the edge of the balcony, trying for an angle that will allow him to shoot downwards at his target. Altair reaches up with one hand and grabs at an ankle; all he can do from his position is tug a bit before the archer yanks his leg free, but it jars the man and wastes a few second.

Those seconds are all that Altair needs to pull himself up.

With his back to the courtyard he pulls out his sword. From the corner of his eye he can see the ground beneath him: a furious de Sablé, a confused and irate Malik. Distantly, Altair wishes he had some way to reassure the man that the battle was going well.

The archers on his side of the balcony fumble for their swords. The man closest to Altair—the one whose ankle was just grabbed—never has a chance to take his out. Altair runs toward him, under a hail of arrows from the other side of the courtyard; he doesn't even have to use his blade. He just ducks, swerves at the _right moment_, and an arrow meant for him hits the archer in the stomach.

The man's shrieks bring the hail of arrows to a halt. From below, Robert is utterly livid.

"Don't stop firing! It's one man!" But the archers are reluctant to strike another one of their own, and the hailstorm becomes a slow trickle.

The other two archers facing Altair run at him at once, daggers drawn. Altair is _alive_ again.

The first man to take a swing isn't nearly as talented with a blade as he is with an arrow. Altair whirls neatly past his strike, robes fluttering, and smirks when the bewildered archer lurches past. The assassin kicks the man from behind, sending him staggering.

Sending him staggering off the ledge.

As the dull _thud _of a body hitting hard ground reverberates through the courtyard, Robert de Sablé curses a steady, French stream. "Idiots! Watch what you are doing!"

The last man throws himself at the assassin with an almost _palpable _air of desperation about him. He puts up an attempt at a defense, manages to ward off a few blows. When Altair's sword finally eats the man's chest away, he seems relieved as he drops. _At least that is over with,_ his eyes sigh. _Assassins kill quicker than some._

The hail of arrows is starting up again, so Altair does not hesitate. He runs, bends his knees and jumps—and below him Robert crows with pleasure, waiting for the drop—but the assassin lands smoothly, on the opposite balcony, confident of his footing.

A second later he has to dart to the side, as an arrow searches for him. It finds the edge of his left shoulder, grazing as it sidles by. He stumbles back not even half a step, but the edge looms and for a moment the pit of his stomach is echoing the agony there must be in such a great fall…Then he shifts his center of gravity, putting training to the test, and is stable once more.

(He is used to such close calls. He is used to realizing mid-leap that certain buildings are farther away than they look, to walls crumbling underneath his feet…)

His shoulder throbs in time with his pulse. Altair grits his teeth, locks his jaw, and forces himself past the new, biting pain. The wound is more of a scratch: not nearly as deep as the one on his side, which was freshly jarred by the jump and is still bleeding. That wound, Altair knows, is serious enough to cause all sorts of problems later, but for now he doesn't focus on it. Again, his guidance comes into use. Assassins face pain daily—they get used to it, or else they die.

(And this pain is nothing to that of Altair's initiation, to watching his finger fall away at the command of Al Mualim's silver dagger, to the raw, soaked flesh burning as blood bubbled and pulsed past the first knuckle, which was now the last as well…)

Robert is still bellowing orders from below. Malik is still trying to figure out the direction of the fighting; his black hair is matted with blood from where his guard has once again wacked him with the sword hilt, but he continues to squirm around.

_Stubborn fool,_ Altair has time to think. He almost smiles.

Then he attacks.

* * *

There is a certain rhythm to battle, Altair knows, be it with swords or fists. There's a flow that has to be found. Combining the right steps will lead to the proper, violent dance. The archer Altair is fighting doesn't know the steps so well. He's not bad with a sword—good instincts—but he leaves himself open for those with creativity in their kills.

Altair is nothing if not creative.

The last two archers run to aid their struggling companion, and quickly the assassin sheaths his sword and reaches behind his back for the short blade. He bends at the knees slightly, letting the blade waver, waiting to catch the right rhythm. All three archers bare their blades at once, but Altair is not afraid.

He whirls and dodges. A gash here, a slice there: he fights off all three, and it's _easy_. Barely has one man had time to acknowledge his newly-missing thumb, then another man is pressing a shaking hand against his ripped-open shoulder. The last man manages to land one blow—not a very deep one, just an insignificant slice along Altair's left arm—before his stomach is torn in multiple places, multiple times.

That man collapses, to curl up against the ground and moan, with juices from his innards leaking out. The last two men are valiant in their attempts to keep the fight going, but it's really already over, and they know it. Altair can see the dread reflected in the whites of their eyes.

(Robert knows it, too. He backs away, moving closer to Malik, still swearing in a half-French mess of words.)

One archer falters and loses his balance, leaving his oh-so-soft neck and chest and belly exposed. Altair is kind. He slits the man's throat and jabs at his wrists; he lets death come without a struggle, and the dying man slides into lifelessness with ease. Like the rest, he is almost willing.

One last guard. One last body.

Altair switches suddenly to his left hand, punching the man in the stomach and then sliding smoothly past. The guard doubles over, face cramping, all his senses clouded by the throbbing in his gut—

Altair feels no regret for taking the chances he is trained to see. He brings the short blade down, and aims it at the guard's back, where neck meets shoulder blades. Then he stabs down.

All the way down. The spinal cord crunches as cold steel cracks it open.

He tightens his grip on the hilt and drags his grotesque puppet back a few steps, until the guard's convulsing body is right up against his killer's chest. Somehow he's still alive, in a strange sense of the word: shuddering, barely able to cry, blood streaming from the corners of his mouth, eyes darting wildly at grey fog that isn't there…

Altair leans in, close. The guard moans.

"Go to your master," the assassin hisses. "Go to your master and show him his fate."

Yanking his blade out under a shower of red drops, Altair twists the man free and shoves against his back with both hands. The guard is still alive as he slips off the balcony's edge.

Another thud. Then a terrible silence.

Robert's face has gone a sickly grey. Malik strains with impatience against his captor's hands, trying for a sense of who has fallen. Altair strides to the edge of the balcony, bodies slumped on either side of his feet. He looks down at Robert, and lets the cowl fall away.

There is a splash of blood drying against the side of his face. He licks gore off his lips and grins, staring at the Templar with a gleam in his eagle's eyes.


	6. Chapter 5

AN-- A short chapter, but an important one. Thanks so much for your reviews!  
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**_Chapter Five_**

By the time Altair reaches the ground again, Robert has regained some color to his face. He's also moved half-way across the courtyard, yelling in French. The door Altair came through is flung open, and suddenly that end of the courtyard is awash with guards: at least a dozen, maybe more. Altair doesn't bother to wonder where they came from or how many there are. He'd assumed from the start that de Sablé's men were infesting the area like lice.

He _can't_ wonder about it. There isn't time.

He heads for Malik, taking long, tense strides. Only one of the Templars guarding the _Dai_ is still there—the over-eager one. The other man took off across the courtyard about the same time Altair's blade crunched against the archer's spine; he's mingling with the new rush of men, trying to blend in, trying to use anonymity to avoid being known for a coward. Not that Altair blames him: the assassin's robes and weapons are sticky with blood, and he's having some trouble keeping the wrath out of his eyes. He isn't a man for cowards to handle.

Let the guard taste his fear at the back of his throat. Let him choke on it. Let it poison him and steal air from his lungs. All Altair has to do is glance in Malik's direction, and he loses whatever sympathy he might have had.

Malik is still squirming as Altair approaches (the latter half-suspects the former is just trying to irritate his captor for the hell of it). The _Dai_ has a fresh drizzle of blood running down the side of his face. The cloth wrapped around his eyes is in the way of the stream, and gummy stains glue the fabric tighter against Malik's skin.

Then the guard steps in front of him, blocking Altair's path. The assassin narrows his eyes.

"Move," he orders the man. Malik turns his head in their general direction, caught by surprise.

The Templar looks at Altair. He doesn't move.

"If you wish to keep both your sword and the arm that wields it, you will get out of my way," Altair tells him. On the other end of the courtyard, Robert is speaking in French to the newly-arrived guards, determination in his words. It's a matter of minutes before Altair has half an army to fight off on his own.

There isn't _time_!

"Are you so resolved to die today?" he demands of the guard in frustration.

The Templar looks from Altair to Malik. He runs a hand through his close-cropped blond hair, as if considering the situation. Malik, unwilling in his sensible way to move without knowing the world around him, rises slowly to his feet. He lifts an uncertain hand to pull off the blindfold, but for some reason has trouble grasping the filthy cloth. The Creed requires its followers to be patient, but Altair's patience is just about done.

Then the guard laughs, and lashes out with his sword. Altair is prepared to dodge the blow.

Malik isn't.

By some assassin's sense he knows to pull away. But with the blindfold still stuck across his eyes, with reflexes that have clearly been hampered by injury and exhaustion…

The sword slices cleanly into Malik's midsection. His entire body jerks. With a half-strangled cry he tears himself away from the blade, and falls back hard against the ground. He huddles against himself, knees drawn up, his arm clamped around his stomach; he groans in a dazed, angry way as blood begins forming a pool at his feet.

"Ohh…" he breathes. "_Ohh_."

The guard, meanwhile, has no chance to enjoy his captive's suffering. Altair does not so much _kill_ him as rip the life from him, piece by piece. This time the attack is quick but not merciful: the assassin impales the Templar straight through the chest, and wishes he had more time to watch the man twitch.

He doesn't. But hearing the misery in his gurgled sobs is pleasure enough.

Pulling his sword free (relishing more than he is supposed to the thump of a body hitting hard ground), Altair moves hastily to Malik's side. With a curse he rips the damned blindfold off, and puts an arm against the _Dai's_ shoulder to help steady him.

"Malik," he says urgently. "Brother, move your arm. Let me see the wound." _He managed to pull away. Perhaps the blade missed his organs. Perhaps it isn't so deep._

"Al…Altair…" Malik looks up at him, blinking in the sudden light. Both his eyes are ringed with bruises. "You…followed…"

He tries to smirk. That he can talk at all is amazing, but Altair knows the sort of training they both went through, and knows how to read past it. Malik's face is bloodless and his hand is shivering against his stomach.

"Yes. Move your _arm_, Malik."

"T-Too late." Malik shakes his head. "They're…already coming. Better…you'd better go, Brother." He forces another smirk. "S-since when…did we call each other…by such polite names?"

Altair glances over his shoulder and grits his teeth. Malik is right—the new guards are coming at them now, in one rush. _Robert is so afraid of me he'd send all these soldiers at once?_ The thought would be more amusing if the situation wasn't so dire.

Turning back to Malik, he asks, "Can you stand?"

Malik sighs. "A-Always…the hero. No time to waste dragging me to my feet. Go on your own."

"There isn't time to argue, either." _The guards are hesitating. Even in a group they are afraid. But that won't last… _Altair readjusts his grip and begins pulling Malik to his feet. "Get up. It would be a waste for you to die here."

Malik rolls his eyes, but he does allow Altair to help him stand. He grunts in discomfort—the wound is jagged and raw, spilling cruor—and throws his arm around Altair's neck, allowing the other man to bare almost all of his weight.

And as he does so, Altair gets a glimpse of his hand and realizes why the _Dai_ had so much trouble trying to remove the blindfold:

Every one of his fingers has been badly broken.

Malik winces, his movements taught with pain. "You'll never let me…forget this," he grumbles. "You having to carry me…I c-can't tell you how delighted I am to…feed your ego…" He trails off, half out of distress and half out of surprise. "Not a-ahh-agreeing with me…?" he asks.

But Altair is looking in Robert's direction, anger visible in the tenseness of his jaw, and his free hand is drifting closer and closer to the blade strapped to his waist…

"Altair," Malik says, "We…cannot stay here. Leave him. At least for now."

It's hearing this request from Malik of all people that reminds Altair to avoid his old demonfriend, arrogance. The only person more determined than Altair to see Robert de Sablé dead is Jerusalem's _Dai_—but Malik has always been the one to temper Altair's rash moves, and the stress in his suffering-soaked voice does so now. Robert has too many soldiers surrounding him, and he is sure of his surroundings in a way Altair isn't, and the Son of None's side wound is burning all the stronger for the strain of baring Malik's extra weight. Stomach wounds are often fatal, but not always—Malik did manage to pull away, so perhaps it isn't as deep a wound as it seems, perhaps there is still something a doctor can do if found in time…

This is no longer a fight Altair can win. He thinks back to Solomon's Temple, and knows he can never relive those old mistakes.

The door he came from is blocked, so he turns and half-drags Malik toward the large doors behind them. With their backs to the enemy, they run.


	7. Chapter 6

**_Chapter Six_**

The double doors lead them to a long, twisted hallway that splits at the end. There's no other option but to follow it, but Altair is starting to feel the back of his neck prickle. Indoors is almost as bad as underground. He is eager for the comforting chaos of outside, and he pulls his cowl back up more for comfort than anonymity.

"The way I entered is behind Robert," he murmurs to Malik. "What other exits should we search for?"

Malik shakes his head. He has to steady himself with a deep breath before he can find the energy to speak. "I was blindfolded before I was brought here," he says. "All I can tell you is that there are too many halls for comfort. The layout is bewildering."

"I thought this place might be a mosque…" Altair muses. Mosques tend to have similar architecture—he could find his way if this was a mosque. But again Malik shakes his head.

"If it is, it's…of no design I've ever seen." He coughs, clenching his jaw against the pain. "No, this—keep _moving_, Altair. We'll never find our way if you keep stopping to give me wary looks. Are you an assassin or a nursemaid?" He glares, and waits until Altair grudgingly speeds back up. "This is not a building meant for the worship of Allah. I think only death is worshipped here."

Altair considers this, remembering the fight in the cemetery, and the way the fortress behind it seemed to swallow up whole sections of sky. "That citadel…"

Malik understands instantly. He is Jerusalem's guardian, after all: the only person who knows the city better than Altair himself. "That would make sense," he agrees. "The most powerful and corrupt of men have passed through the great fortress's gates."

"Yes…" Altair lets the conversation die as they near the end of the hall. It leads out to another hallway, but the walls block any sign of what the second passage holds. Figuring out where they are has solved none of their problems. He slows down, fingers itching for his blade.

"Again you falter?" Malik looks at him, and something close to unease crosses his face. His own assassin's instincts come alive. "Altair…"

"It's quiet," the assassin says. "Robert and his men were not so far away, and this hallway is not so endless…"

"But they haven't followed us out of the courtyard," Malik finishes for him. "Then they…they do not feel the need to. They expect someone else to finish us now. There must be guards lurking in every direction."

Altair is silent. Malik turns his head to study his guarded expression. "You have a plan, then?" he asks.

His only answer is a gruff question: "Can you stand on your own?"

Malik flushes and sneers. Rather than respond he pulls himself away from Altair, taking a few steps back for good measure. He even squares his shoulders. "Does it look like it?" he snaps. "Of course I can."

Altair looks at him for as long as he dares. Malik's tunic is blotched with red and brown; he moves his arm against his stomach, hiding the worse of the wound from view, but it isn't hard to imagine its disgusting depths. There isn't much color left in Malik's face: even his lips are pale.

Malik meets Altair's eyes for an interminable second. They were friends once, or at least not enemies, but though Altair has been forgiven the wounds have not scabbed over. There is a canyon stretching between them now, and Altair doesn't know how to get across.

He turns away, for both their sakes. He pretends not to notice when Malik slumps against the wall.

"There will be a guard around the corner," he says with certainty, though he has not seen down the second hallway yet.

"There could be many guards around the corner," Malik points out.

"Perhaps. But we would hear voices…"

"You doubt that Robert's men are well-trained? Twice now they have held you off."

Altair can't tell if there's scorn hidden in the _Dai's_ seemingly neutral voice. But, he reminds himself, what if there is? Malik above all people has earned the right to doubt his skills.

"Even if there are multiple guards," he says, "it will be better for me to take them by surprise than for us to wait for them to realize we're here. I have slashed my way through crowds before."

"Were you missing half your side when you did so?" Malik demands. "I _know_ how hard it is to fight off several men at once. Did you think I'd fail to notice how much of the blood on the ground is yours?"

Altair grits his teeth, impatient. "Are you an assassin or a nursemaid?"

"Neither," Malik says, and now there is _definitely_ scorn. "It's as Robert said—"

"Hold your tongue," Altair orders, but tiredly. Malik falls silent; his eyes look weary, too.

"Fine," he says after a moment. "I don't know why I bother to argue with you. Go throw yourself head-first into the viper's nest. Altair…"

His voice softens. "I did not learn to stand your presence just so you could get yourself sliced into pieces. I know you are too proud to care what others think, but you could at least remember that."

Altair shrugs, and smirks, and feels strange in a way he doesn't bother to think about. Extending his hidden blade, he runs to meet whatever lies ahead.

* * *

There are guards, but only a couple; the second hallway ends at a wooden door, but the door isn't locked. It isn't that their luck is turning, so much as it's holding steady: they meet no serious obstacles, but they find no way out of the maze that they're in.

Altair's side is beginning to go numb. He is bearing more and more of Malik's weight. Eventually they stop, and this time Malik doesn't bristle: he doesn't have the strength.

(Altair is getting a headache from the sickening sameness of this place. Every hall looks the same. None of the rooms have furniture. This fortress is claustrophobia incarnate, with dust in the corners.)

Malik leans against a wall with a sigh that's almost a gasp. He draws his arm even tighter against his stomach; he's still on his feet, still cognizant, but...

This is not the time to be lost.

"Another hallway. Rooms without windows. No wonder Robert chose this place. He didn't expect to defeat you in battle, he's just going to wait until we starve to death."

Altair cleans his sword with the edge of his robes. "No building is inescapable."

"There might just be the one entrance. The one you said you came from, not to mention the one the Templars are blocking."

"Then we'll use it."

"Oh yes? Just like that?"

"Why should that door be any harder to open than—"

"Open your eyes, Altair." Malik shuts his, as a spasm of pain crosses his face. "We're both exhausted. Half the Christian army is in that courtyard. How will you fight all of them? Do you expect them to run the minute you scowl?"

Altair leans against the wall opposite, and smirks. "That has worked in the past."

"Arrogant fool." Malik lets his legs give way beneath him. He sits down, back against the wall, arm still drawn across his stomach. Sitting is no less safe then standing, at this point; there haven't been any guards in the last few branches of the labyrinth. They are so deep within the building's bowels that even Robert's lice haven't spread this far.

But Malik's eyes are still closed. That's disquieting for another reason.

"You should stand up," Altair says.

"What are you complaining about this time?"

"You are injured. You've lost a lot of blood. You need to stay focused."

"Stop worrying." Malik finally looks at him—no, not at him, _past_ him. At some demon only he can see. "I've had worse wounds than this."

There it is again: that maybe-scorn. Altair's stomach clenches. Warily he walks over and kneels down beside the _Dai_. "It isn't just your stomach. Your ankle is swollen, and your fingers…"

"Enough." Malik frowns at him. "Aren't you tired of sounding dramatic? You can be a hero another day."

"I am not trying to be a…"

"No? Then why did you even bother to come here?"

Altair feels as though they are speaking separate languages. "To kill de Sablé before he could kill you."

"Altair, you are an _idiot_," Malik snarls. His body is beginning to tremble with the effort it takes to hold himself upright.

Altair's eyes flash. He's never been good at controlling himself, and his voice ices over. "How am I an idiot, for upholding the Creed?"

"You couldn't give a damn about the Creed. If you did you wouldn't be here right now!"

"I have been sent to rescue members of the Brotherhood before. Why does doing so now suddenly go against what we've been taught?"

"You," Malik says venomously, "have been sent to rescue those who were _worthwhile_ to save. People with information, assassins with strength enough to still be of use. You have been taught to be cautious and stealthy. Tell me, Altair, how does walking into Robert de Sablé's ridiculous trap live up to those expectations?"

"Did you expect me to leave you to some horrific death?"

"I expected you to uphold the tenants of the Brotherhood!" Malik reaches out suddenly and grabs Altair's collar. He curls his broken fingers around the fabric with a snarl; doing so must hurt immensely, but Altair is too distracted by the _Dai's_ newly-exposed wound to pull away—

It's nauseatingly deep.

"I thought you said you'd _learned_ something over the past few months." Malik's voice shakes, just slightly. "Instead you charge right into Robert's ambush! His plans were so obvious it's almost insulting, and you _play along_! And for what? What possible reason could you have?"

"I told you," Altair says quietly. "To kill my enemy and to—"

"Right, to save the cripple." Malik spits out the word. "The best assassin in the Brotherhood risks his life for stupidity's sake, and he wants to know what he's done wrong. You're worse than a novice, Altair."

Silence. Malik struggles for composure.

Gently, Altair untangles Malik's fingers from his robes. The _Dai_ lets his hand drop into his lap and stares at it, almost blankly.

"Call me a fool or an idiot if you'd like. It changes nothing. I don't regret my choice."

"Your choice," Malik echoes, sounding hollow.

"Would you have done anything different if our roles were reversed?"

"Our roles would never be reversed. You are the idiot, I am the cripple."

Altair's eyes flash. "You shouldn't call yourself that."

"Why not?" Malik shrugs his shoulder, and his sardonic grin is almost a grimace. "Isn't it the truth?"

"You have given enormous sacrifices to the Brotherhood. There is no dishonor in that."

"Fine," Malik says, "Then I am an _honorable_ cripple." He grimaces again. He looks so tired.

"Malik."

"What is it you expect of me, Altair? You lost your rank back in Solomon's Temple, but Al Mualim let you have it back. Whatever honor he took from you has been regained. A momentary lapse of dignity isn't fatal, though you like to pretend it is." Softly: "Not even almighty Al Mualim can return to me my skills as an assassin. There is nothing anyone can do to bring Kadar back to life."

Altair has to struggle not to flinch. It's hard, hearing that name on those lips. He's being flung into the canyon without any idea what's waiting at the bottom…

"You said you had forgiven…" he manages.

"I forgave _you_, Brother. You aren't quite as intolerable as you used to be. Bearing that grudge would serve no point." Malik's eyes are closed again. "Kadar was _my_ family. I was the one who failed him in the end. My whole life, I protected him…"

"You were outnumbered. My conceit led us all astray."

"And Kadar died. I saw my brother die. I saw…Robert…I couldn't even bury what was left of Kadar in the end. I don't know where his body lies." His words soaked in bitterness, Malik turns away. "You wasted your time, coming here. I couldn't possibly suffer more than I already have."

Altair reaches canyon bottom. Every bone in his body begins to throb.

Malik gives a tired laugh. "Tell me, Altair…why do you even care? We were never friends. I was always jealous, you were always an ass. And after Solomon's Temple I didn't hide the fact that I despised you."

"Exactly. It gets tiresome, hearing nasty rumors but never being confronted face-to-face. It's amazing how cowardly assassins can be." Altair isn't one for smiles (not genuine ones, anyway), and the one he tries out now looks strange on him. "You are never afraid to insult me whenever you feel I need it."

Malik mutters, "You always need it."

"You see? The others are disdainful of me, but from a distance. They fear what my blade might do…"

"Whereas I've seen you wield that blade and know that you have all the finesse of a blind man."

"Exaggeration doesn't suit you."

"Who's exaggerating? Watching you flail around is like watching an untrained monkey."

Altair trades in the smile for a scowl. "You're pushing it, _Brother_."

"Has anyone ever told you that you take yourself too seriously?"

"I will leave you here," Altair threatens.

"You've no sense of humor. You should reflect on that." Malik smiles dimly, remembering old fights and old scars. "Preferably when I'm not around."

He looks down, and an oddly worn look comes into his eyes. Altair follows his gaze and sees red-brown mud between the cracked floor tiles.

The assassin wants to throttle his stupidity. While he's been bickering with Malik like a child the ground around the both of them has been gathering eager russet stains, and _damn it, I will not let him die here!_

"You won't be around for anything if you don't get your injuries treated soon. Come, get to your feet. We must keep moving."

"Another moment. Just to catch my breath."

Altair rises back to his feet, frustrated. Why is Malik, always the wiser of the two, being so stubborn now? "It will only get harder the longer we wait. The exit must be close. Stand up and we can find it."

Malik looks up at him through slitted eyes. "You're always in a rush. If you had such a busy schedule for today then you shouldn't have come." He sighs, angling his head to convey amusement that isn't there. "I know how you hate to be delayed by dead weight—"

This time it's Altair who grabs at Malik's shirtfront. He pulls the _Dai_ up to his feet so sharply that Malik has no choice but to steady himself, startled. He winces from the abrupt movement, but for once Altair isn't fazed.

"Do you intend to join Kadar so quickly?" he demands. "At least your brother died _fighting_."

"How dare you…" Malik's voice goes hoarse with rage. "How dare you speak his name when you weren't even _there_…"

"No. I wasn't." Altair's expression softens. He lets go of Malik's tunic and turns away. "I ran. You were the one who stayed to do battle. Even though you knew it was a fool's errand. Even though you were the one who'd resisted fighting all along."

Malik, eyeing the other man with suspicion, brings his hand up to brush at something—at nothing, a nervous twitch. His fingers tremble and smear blood across his cheek.

"You were the one who watched Kadar die. But instead of killing yourself in some hopeless attempt at revenge, you knew enough to escape with the Piece of Eden. You could have flung yourself at Robert de Sablé to avenge Kadar and die in the process, but you didn't. You completed the mission, upheld the Creed at a horrible cost."

Altair pulls out his sword and sets about cleaning it with the edges of his robes again. He's calm, collected…inside of him, there is chaos.

He is the Son of None, the master assassin—he does not apologize, and he does not admit to weakness, and he does not _want_ to be saying these things, not _now_! Weakness will lead to failure, to dishonor: what is an assassin without his pride? What is _Altair_ without his pride?

"Meanwhile, I ran," he says. "That makes you the stronger of us, it would seem."

He looks up, directly into Malik's eyes. Malik's gaze wavers and he almost glances away—but he doesn't. They look fixedly at each other, though doing so is hard.

"So what is your point?" Malik says finally. "Am I too good to die in a hallway?"

Altair's eyes flash. "You are too good to die before Robert. Have the satisfaction of knowing he is in Hell first. At the very least you deserve that."

Malik is silent for a moment. Then he lifts his hand again and considers his mangled fingers. "Like this, I can't even fight," he murmurs.

Altair reaches behind his back and slides a throwing dagger from its sheath. He holds it out to the other man and tries to ignore his own doubt. "Can you still hold this?"

With a frown, Malik tries to flex his fingers. Nothing happens: the skin around the knuckles is stretched tight by swelling, and marred around the breaks with blue-and-purple whorls. He grits his teeth, tries again.

Altair watches, and feels like an accomplice to torture.

The pinky and ring fingers simply will not move. The thumb twitches, then bends a bit; the middle finger bobs up and down but refuses to straighten out. The pointer finger is the most obviously broken, the middle joint jutting unnaturally upwards; Malik forces it to bend, cursing through his teeth.

"Nnh…!" He's panting as he finally raises his head. "I think…I can hold it," he says with some difficulty. Fresh pain is clumped to every word he speaks. "Throwing it…might not work. I can…try, at least."

Altair does not look convinced.

"What were you expecting…the breaks were done on purpose," Malik says impatiently. "Of course they're going to be severe. But I can wield…at least one dagger, Altair."

"It will hurt."

"It already hurts. You are the one who offered me the damned thing! You knew it wouldn't be easy."

Altair knows he cannot say what he is really thinking: that knowing is different than seeing, that he'd hoped for stupid reasons that the fractures weren't as serious as they obviously are, that watching Malik grimace is even harder than it should be and he isn't sure why. Malik is glaring at him with defiance and Altair wonders when things stopped being simple—before Solomon's Temple there was dislike and after there was bitterness and guilt, and now there's all of that plus more, plus some strange longing that makes no sense…

He hands the dagger over, slowly. Malik fumbles for it, clenching his jaw. He manages to sort of balance it awkwardly, between thumb and middle finger, pressing his pointer finger down as best he can to hold the dagger in place.

"You won't be able to throw it like that," Altair says. "It'll be useless for you."

Malik sighs, heavily. He steadies his hand, adjusts his fingers, only the tightness in his jaw giving his agony away. Then he twitches his wrist. The aim is far from perfect and the throw itself is shaky, but the dagger goes flying past Altair and hits the wall with a clang.

Altair stares at Malik. Malik purses his lips and stares smugly right back.

"Only a novice surrenders because of a little pain," he says. "Now do me a favor and go pick that up." 


	8. Chapter 7

AN: Teh dramaz. The 'subtle' paring is at its least subtle in this chapter (sorta).  
_**

* * *

**_

_**Chapter Seven**_

Before they move on, Altair insists on tearing off the cleanest bit of his robes and turning the fabric into a makeshift bandage. Malik rolls his eyes and huffs a lot, but he doesn't protest nearly as vehemently as he might normally have done—he keeps blinking, keeps licking his lips and complaining of a dry mouth. His voice is starting to fade at the edges. When Altair shifts Malik's tunic aside to wrap the fabric, the wound glares back at him with jagged edges licked in red.

There is dried blood and fresh blood and brown-purple ooze, and when Altair tightens the bandages Malik exhales in a great, desperate gasp. But when Altair asks if the pain is bearable enough to allow for movement, all Malik will say is, "I have had worse wounds," and frown at the air.

"I have had worse wounds." A mantra that hurts as much as it helps.

Altair helps Malik back to his feet. They have a quick, heated argument over whether or not the _Dai_ needs assistance walking, complete with hand gesturing on Altair's part and unusual combinations of curses on Malik's. The debate comes to a stalemate after Altair suggests that Malik stop being such a stubborn child, and after Malik calls Altair a choice string of words that imply several grievous things about the assassin's more intimate skills. Altair decides to break said stalemate by physically grabbing Malik's arm and slinging it over his shoulder. Malik insults certain parts of Altair usually kept hidden; Altair points out the _Dai's_ seeming fascination with his sexual abilities; Malik stomps quite forcefully on his foot. Argument finished, they leave the hallway behind.

* * *

Altair is tired, and his adrenalin is fading, and his side is hurting more and more. Malik isn't bearing much of his own weight at all; he grunts when talked to, but Altair can feel his body shivering, can feel the irregularities in his pulse.

Neither one of them is at their best. Maybe that's why they make such a rudimentary mistake.

The hallway ends, leading out into another, but instead of stopping to peer around the corner as he has been doing—for corner after corner after corner, a maze without end—Altair just keeps going. Malik doesn't protest…Malik barely seems aware of his surroundings at this point. They enter the new hallway, and at its far end is a small door.

And there are six Templars in front of that door. One of those Templars is Robert de Sablé.

Altair stops, abruptly. Malik's breathing is harsh against his skin. For a second he considers darting backwards, out of sight—he is no match for Robert, not now, not unprepared and with what strength he has left being used to keep Malik upright. But it's too late. One of the Templars spots them and bellows, "Assassin! You won't get away!"

His fellow soldiers are, of course, alerted by his yelling. They all pull swords out at once, including Robert—and the icy resolve in the latter's eyes is more unnerving than any of his previous smirks.

"Altair—" Malik rouses himself, starts to pull away. He doesn't bother to finish his sentence.

_Six men is nothing,_ Altair tries to convince himself. _I've fought alongside Malik before. The two of us have taken down twice this number with ease._

(Twice this number, but that was back when Malik could still follow him on missions, when they were both whole—often as not Kadar would be sent to assist them as well, and it's funny how irritated the Son of None used to get at having to play mentor for the novice—funny that now he has what he used to demand, a chance to fight alone and be the triumphant, honored hero—funny how he's realized what an idiot he always was—he doesn't want this honor at all—)

"That door," he tells Malik grimly. "It must be the way out. Robert's been waiting for us to find it." _Waiting, regaining his energy, while the two of us have drained ourselves running from place to place. _"I'll keep them distracted. I'm their target anyway, so it will not be a difficult task. You make use of the confusion…get through that door and keep going."

Malik shakes his head. "No, Altair."

De Sablé crows, "What's the matter, heretic? You're holding back all of a sudden!" His men approach cautiously, but Altair knows that they'll attack all at once, in an overwhelming mass.

"There isn't time to argue," he snaps at Malik, "so for once follow my orders without—"

"You aren't _listening_, Brother." Something in Malik's tone cuts Altair off mid-rant. He takes in the _Dai's_ appearance and notices something new: there's outright fear in his eyes now.

Malik takes a deep breath, struggling with himself. "I can probably make it to the door on my own," he says. "But past that…damn you! You always need to see me humble myself." He curses with a rough shake of his head. "I won't get far, even if you keep de Sablé busy for an hour. You might as well gloat, Altair: I need your help if I'm going to stay on my feet for long."

Altair hesitates. Malik isn't meeting his eye, and is actually reddening a bit—he's embarrassed, even in their current situation. And why should that be a surprise? The Altair he last fought beside would have scoffed the moment he admitted to any weakness whatsoever.

(This extra thorn in their relationship, as with so many of the others, owes its existence to Altair alone.)

"Malik," he starts to say, but again the other man cuts him off.

"Trust me for once," the _Dai_ says, lightly enough. "Though I know it goes against your personal creed."

"No, Brother," Altair has time to say, because there's no one else he trusts more. But then he's shouting it again, for a different reason, because with strength from Allah knows where Malik pushes himself forward, angling himself directly in the path of the Templars: his legs shake and a bit of loose bandage trails out from under his tunic, stained and grimy.

Realization hits Altair, then: he isn't surprised to reach behind his back and feel the empty space where a throwing dagger should be. He isn't surprised to see Malik's fingers clenched in a horribly unnatural way around the weapon's hilt. Malik glances over his shoulder and sends Altair a smirk—somehow he's still smirking—and the assassin isn't sure whether to kill the man for his stupidity or bow down to him for his bravery.

There is time to do neither. The soldiers have almost reached them.

Altair pulls his sword out. "Hit the first man," he says to Malik (because there's no use arguing with him, not now). "I'll use the surprise against the rest and clear a path." He nods in a stiff way (because he doesn't have to like this, though he'll accept it grudgingly enough) at the dagger in Malik's hand. "Use that to make sure the doorway stays clear for us."

The _Dai_ gives a tight nod of his head. "Don't take too long," he says.

The Templars gather a bit beyond them: the memory of the massacre in the courtyard is fresh for them, and no one wants to be the first to strike. But Robert is impatient, and the blatant weariness of their targets does a lot to ease their fear.

De Sablé starts it. "That cripple is still alive?" he hisses. "Get him out of the way!"

Six men rush forward, at once…

The man in the lead sees Malik—bloodied, hurt, exhausted Malik—and outright laughs. He raises his sword above his head for an easy kill.

The throwing dagger doesn't hit him in the forehead, or the throat, or any other fatal spot; the aim is wild, so it buries itself in his shoulder instead. The Templar is wearing chain mail…a dagger won't do much damage, especially with so little force in the throw. But it does make the man pause for a moment, confused, wondering where the dagger came from since Altair's hands never moved.

Malik uses that moment well.

It's a foolhardy, desperate move—suicidal, really. He pushes himself right up against the Templar to twist the dagger free, and all the man has to do is bring his sword down into the inviting target that is the top of Malik's skull. But he's so bewildered that his movements are sluggish, and that is what Malik was clearly counting on: the _Dai_ pulls the dagger free with a hand that must be beyond feeling. From such close range, it isn't hard even with his current lack of aim to find a soft bit of throat to feed to the shining blade.

The Templar gurgles, drops his sword. He jerks and shudders. Malik doesn't have the benefit of two hands to hold the dagger in place, so he braces his shoulder and shoves himself against the other man's frame. The Templar loses his balance and the two men fall together; Malik scrambles to pull himself free. (His own cries of pain are hidden by the Templar's dying throes.)

Meanwhile Altair is holding off four men at once: every time a Templar attempts to swing at Malik, the Son of None whirls in between and blocks the blow. He's fighting furiously—beyond furious, with an animalistic anger that even he doesn't know how to control. He slashes and hacks and stabs men once they've already fallen and while his sword is still buried in one man's chest he reaches out and gouges at a second man's eyes. He's covered in fresh blood yet again, and much of it isn't his but much of it is, and this is not how assassins are taught to fight, he is not being calm nor stealthy, Altair's violence is more primal than what the Creed understands.

Primal rages can't be trusted, can't be tamed, and perhaps Altair will regret this loss of control later, but for now he spins a man around and jabs at each arm—the bones crack, it's a vile and lovely sound—and as the man sags forward he uses his sword to spin him around a second time and stab him in the back.

For now, Altair lets the fight consume him.

He looks up and there are five bodies and one man—De Sablé is beyond livid. He looks up again, looks up and _past_…he narrows his eyes and lets his training flow forward and all distractions are greyed out, and he sees Malik reach the doorway…and then he pushes past even that sight, welcome as it is, and sees only Robert.

Robert. His enemy. His target. He should be dead, should have _been_ dead. Altair is still standing and captured by the fight, his sword is ready and his hidden blade digs eagerly into the underside of his arm. Smirking, callous, cruel-hearted Robert…

Something squirms into Altair's narrowed focus: footsteps. Footsteps, and relief in Robert's eyes.

More guards, coming their way. Meanwhile Malik is leaning against the door frame and looking at him urgently. Altair is not used to this…this constant retreat, this constant shuffling of plans. He is not used to failure. Al Mualim gives him names and he kills their bearers—he is the ghostly assassin, reminding the depraved and corrupted that they are only owners of mortal lives.

_This is humbling,_ he has to remind himself. This is the lesson he was meant to learn. He ducks a swing of Robert's sword, twists past him smoothly, and runs…

De Sablé roars with frustration. "Stop scurrying like a rat, _salaud!_ Do you think you can escape me forever?" But Altair lets the insult dig at his back and keeps going. The armor Robert is wearing slows him down; the assassin reaches the door and slams it shut once he's past. Malik moves over to him, silently. (Altair isn't the only one tired of letting the target slip away.)

The heavy, wooden door muffles the Templar's jeers, but not enough. Altair hears every word.

He takes a second to survey his new surroundings: behind him is a stone staircase, narrow and twisted, the steps worn slippery by years of foot-traffic. Tiny windows, more cracks than anything and far too small to see out of, give the stairway its only light.

The door shakes suddenly. Altair can hear more voices than just Robert's now. He grabs the metal doorknob and wrenches it, jamming the lock. Fists pound on the other side, but the slats are thick—they'll delay the Templars for a few minutes, hopefully.

Although the door is old, and dilapidated, and wood only lasts so long…

"We need to keep moving," Altair says to Malik, staring at the doorknob as it's rattled from the other side. "This won't hold them off forever. We need only reach the top of these stairs…"

Malik doesn't answer.

Altair turns around just in time to see the _Dai's_ eyes roll up to the back of his head. His legs buckle, and the only thing that saves his head from cracking against solid stone is Altair's darting to catch him before he can fall. Altair lowers himself onto a step, cradling the other man as carefully as he can.

Malik's eyes flutter. He moans.

"Brother. Malik, wake up. Open your eyes. _Malik._" Altair runs his left hand against Malik's forehead. "Hold on just a little longer. Don't be such a novice, we're almost there!"

Malik's skin is flushed and feverish, hot to the touch. His lips are cracked, and a trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth. Every bruise, every scratch—and there are a _lot_ of bruises, a _lot_ of scratches—seems grotesquely vibrant against their backdrop of too-pale flesh.

Cursing with anger (with something beyond anger), Altair yanks Malik's tunic up and stares at the mess. His attempt at bandaging the wound has done nothing. He grabs a limp arm, fumbles for a pulse, can't feel the tell-tale beating against his fingers; he switches to Malik's neck, searching out some sign, some hope…

There—a pulse. Definitely a pulse. But such a weak one…

"Malik!" _Such an idiot, barely alive, he's dragged himself so far and now he's going to give in?_ "Open your eyes, damn you." _I knew how badly he was injured, I could see it for myself. Why did I let him convince me that he was still strong enough to fight? _"Do you expect me to carry you the whole way? Wake up and walk for yourself!" _He said there was no other way. He was right. _

_No, not right. There is always another way. I could have found one. I can always find one._

(The door shudders again. The wood is about to give way.)

_He isn't an assassin any longer. This should not be his fate!_

Malik tilts his head, chest heaving, and vomits up a mouthful of blood, which splatters against the front of Altair's robes. The Son of None feels adrift in a sea of stinking red.

"The Templars are about to break through," he hisses, as if somehow the sheer desperation of their situation will open the injured man's eyes. "Why give Robert the satisfaction of killing you? Get up! At least try to keep going!"

He snarls and grabs Malik by the torn collar and shakes him, drags him forward until he's close—too close—hating the way Malik's body slumps forward, limp and unresponsive—wanting to _force_ him to open those fading brown eyes.

"You said you'd had worse wounds. You said…" _You said, you said._ Altair feels like a child. He feels like a fool. He feels like he is standing in front of the rubble of Solomon's Temple, hearing Kadar's endless scream…

(It was too high-pitched, too like a child's voice, and what must it have been like to see it all take place?)

"You've had worse…Malik…" Altair is utterly drained. He's never been this tired before. His limbs have never felt so weighted down. "If you open your eyes," he whispers, "I will kill every Templar who comes through that door. I will take Robert de Sablé by the throat, rip his eyes out of their sockets, make him swallow his own intestines. I will make him suffer for you, Brother." _Everything is permitted. _"So be it if that is against the Creed."

Malik's body is shivering, despite the clammy heat of the stairway. He coughs, weakly, but that one cough is enough to wrench a pitiful yelp from his lips.

"Don't die in a stairway. You deserve a better kind of death." A panel in the center of the door cracks open. Gloved hands appear in the gap and begin to tear away the wood. "There are not so many of them left. We do not have far to go." _Nothing is true, and everything is permitted. _"Open your eyes and I will tear Robert to bits."

Another panel crashes down. Altair yanks a dagger free and throws it without looking: there's a bark of pain, and one pair of hands falls away.

Not enough. Never enough.

Hurriedly, Altair forces himself to his feet. Still clutching Malik in his arms, he attempts the stairs, but piercing agony spreads down his side in pitiless waves and he staggers, slumping hard against the wall. He's lost too much blood himself—

He shoves his body forward, with clenched teeth. Again he stumbles. And again. And he keeps almost-falling up the stairs, again and again, Malik lying lifeless in his arms and all the while a nasty little voice is telling him to leave the body, leave it the way he's left countless bodies behind before, because this is really just one more body, just one more difficulty he can solve by abandoning the dead weight.

And somehow he makes it to a small landing before his legs give way and he slides to the ground. In front of him, the stairs go on and on.

_Nothing is true_. Black spots burn in front of his eyes. _I won't lose what's mine. _The canyon walls are crumbling, though he's so close to the top. _I will shred his skin from his bones, Malik!_

There comes the softest of cries. Altair looks down, almost beyond seeing.

Malik gazes back up at him, dazedly. There's an unfocused look in his eyes that reminds Altair of the lepers wandering Acre's streets. "Ahh…Alta…" He stirs slightly. He seems surprised. "It hurts."

"I know." Altair is barely aware of what he's saying. "It will hurt far worse for Robert."

"Kadar is…" Malik's eyes flicker dreamily past Altair's face. "Where is…my brother should be…"

"Malik, Kadar is…" Altair can't get the words out. "Brother, do you know where you are?"

"Altair…" Malik gives a delirious laugh. "There are…_oh_, there are two of you. And two horses. Don't go any further or you'll fall through…fall through the…"

He attempts to sit up, but instead screams and collapses back against Altair. "_Ohhh_," he groans. "Oh, Allah, it hurts."

"I know. You must be strong. Just for a little while longer."

"S-Strong? Of course I…" Another wild laugh. "You should know that I am strong. You s-said I was, yourself. Y-You took…everything away from me. My arm. My brother. Don't…don't you remember that? H-How strong I was? You t-took everything away from me but I survived. I s-survived and I hated you, and even when I hated you I still wanted to…I still _wanted_ you, even then." He twists, agitated, thin shoulders brushing against Altair's ribs. "D-Doesn't that make me strong? Wanting you when you took everything away? Meanwhile you're still too afraid to _admit_…"

A loud crash comes from down below. French voices fill the stairway.

"Y-You think you are so wise. You think you can…take people and warp them, m-make them do what _you_ want, what _you_ think they should do. You can't. You took everything else away b-but…but you won't take this. You won't push me away by being a bastard…no, _I_ will decide…"

"Malik-…" Altair actually stammers, for perhaps the first time in his life. "Now is not the time to…"

"Why not?" Malik grabs at the front of Altair's robes and struggles to pull himself into a sitting position. "Why…why shouldn't I…"

"Brother, you are badly wounded. You don't know what you're saying."

"S-So that's your excuse…nngh…you think I don't mean to…say these things?"

Altair hesitates. "I don't think you mean to say them _now_."

Malik sneers, and there is so much anger in his clouded eyes that Altair has trouble meeting his gaze. "I'll say them now," the _Dai_ says, "I'll say them now and I'll…_ahh_, damn it, it _hurts_!" He grabs even tighter at Altair's robes, choking on his own blood as it drizzles from his mouth. "Kadar," he moans. "Little brother, please…"

Dimly, Altair is aware that the Templars are coming for them. He stares down at Malik and does not know what to do.

_Fight?_ His arms are full, his strength is gone. _Run?_ Always running. He can carry his own weight, but no more. _Surrender?_ He has never. He will never. There are more honorable forms of suicide.

Those are the options. None of them will work. But there is nothing in the Creed that Altair can look to—he is an assassin, he kills to save but cannot heal. He keeps himself separate: they all do, because to be attached is to know loss, and loss is a distraction. His name bears witness, after all. The Son of None—alone, but for Al Mualim's guidance (and Al Mualim would never hesitate to sever their relationship should he deem it wise). He has never known his parents. If he has siblings he has never met them. He was raised to accept that his Brothers were transient, that they would die as their skills failed them and would be replaced as others proved their worth.

The Son of None has always been alone.

But not now. Because now he is holding Malik's suffering body in his arms, and not being alone means he does _not know what to do_.

The Templars' voices are very near…surprisingly, they haven't reached the landing yet. _How many stairs did I climb_, Altair wonders. _It's strange that I do not remember. _He stands up, arms straining to support Malik. The other man groans deep in his throat, his eyes closed again. His raspy breathing quiets; when Altair says his name, he does not answer.

Altair has already condemned running as a possibility. But there are no possibilities left. He does not know where the strength is coming from. He knows that, had this happened months prior, he would already be dead. Humbling knowledge—but in a way it makes Altair pleased. This is proof that he is better than he was. Better than anyone. This is proof.

Taking a few cautious steps, he notes the way his legs strain to stay upright, notes the way his aching muscles burn in time with his side. The French voices are very close: these awkward half-steps are not enough. He will have to run.

So he steadies himself, clutches Malik more securely, and breathes out the words that are a part of him: _Nothing is true. Everything is permitted._ And running hurts—hurts more than Altair has words to describe—but he takes the pain and pushes it aside.

Altair is a predator. Survival is worth a lot of blood.


	9. Chapter 8

AN: I originally had the ending for this chapter at a different, later point...again, this was never really meant to be as epic as it became so I've had some pacing issues. Next chapter is now much shorter, but this chapter loses some of its wordy drag.

Thanks as always to _**skywalker05**_ for reading my attempts at action, fixing them, and not laughing at me in the process (much). Also, thanks to all the reviewers!  
**_

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**_Chapter Eight_**

Every passing second takes a thousand years to pass. The stairway is beginning to waver dangerously in front of Altair's eyes when another wooden door appears up ahead.

_If there are more stairs on the other side…_but he doesn't finish the thought. Malik has gone very still and silent. More stairs will kill them both.

Altair shifts Malik in his arms so he can reach for the door handle, and feels a sick sort of pleasure when the wounded man whimpers. "Almost there," he insists to no one. "We are almost there. And he is still alive. Only a brainless novice would choose to die now."

The door squeals with rusty disuse, but Altair is not about to waste more time wrestling with uncooperative exits. He gives the handle a furious yank, and the door reluctantly swings open. Even as Altair is darting through the doorway, he looks up, dreading the sight before him…

But the darkness that greets his vision is not the cloying type of the inner fortress. It's the pure dark of a night sky, with sprinkled starlight pouring through occasional, wispy clouds. Cool air drifts against Altair, soothing sore limbs. Malik mumbles in his delirious sleep.

Outside. They are finally outside.

Altair doesn't bother feeling relieved—they've escaped the citadel, but they haven't yet _escaped_. They aren't on ground, but a roof…a very high roof. Jerusalem rests before them: they are higher than the tallest cross or minaret tower. And there are no ladders leading down.

Trying to remember the architecture of the building proves useless; Altair glances up and sees smooth walls soaring on three of four sides. The fortress climbs higher still, apparently, but Altair will not be climbing with it: the walls are utterly lacking in exposed bricks and cracks-turned-handholds. Climbing down will be no less impossible; even were it not such a long, dangerous path, there's no way to scale the building while holding Malik in his arms.

They are still trapped, then. Altair bares his teeth into a snarl, cursing whatever force in the universe is determined to see him dead.

Something catches his eye: a splintery, wooden beam sticking a few inches out from the edge of the roof. It's just a loose plank, but Altair goes to inspect it nevertheless. It's at the right angle…and it's just long enough…maybe he could…

He walks to the edge of the roof and looks down, narrowing his eyes to better focus his vision. Far below, an old wagon filled with hay rests on a cobblestoned street. Wind billows through his robes, nearly pushes his cowl off his head. The hot, summer air sticks to his skin.

Altair hesitates. Every instinct he has—every urge, every bit of training—is telling him to make the jump from ledge to wagon. It's a long way down, and not exactly a soft landing, but one of the first tricks Altair learned while in training was how to scale great heights and then promptly leap off them. It's still risky, but for an assassin it's not an unusual move. Altair knows how to position himself, how to turn in mid-air, how to judge for distance and end with perfect aim. He could make that jump.

He could. Malik can't.

The _Dai_ is still drifting in and out of a weak, fever-drenched consciousness. When Altair tries to talk to him, he gets nothing lucid in way of a response. There is no way Malik will be able to rouse himself long enough and well enough to aim properly, position properly, _land_ properly. Altair has seen the results of missed jumps: broken limbs are the best result. More often, miscalculated high leaps end with skulls cracked open against stone, brain matter soaking into pavement and ribs jutting through skin.

He can make the jump. But he _can't_ make the jump. And that damn voice is back, breathing in his ear, reminding him that he is the great assassin, who always survives…all he has to do is what he's already done…

_(Turn your back on them and go. Ignore the screaming. They are assassins, they are willing to die; you are too talented, too necessary. Run so that you can keep living._

_ Ignore the screaming. You're used to being alone.)_

Altair has spent most of his life listening to that voice. Now he looks down at Malik's haggard form and feels sick. He's cut men in half, been bathed in the blood of strangers, watched as wrong-place-wrong-time bystanders were slaughtered by arrows and swords and poison—but Malik's shallow breathing is what makes Altair want to gag.

He kneels down, shifts Malik from his arms, propping him up with his back against the wall. The back of his neck tingles. "I _will_ end this," he whispers. "I will keep you alive."

Then he turns around, standing firmly in front of the _Dai_. Their backs are to the wall now, literally. When he sees Robert framed in the doorway, it feels a bit like fate.

The usual bunch of guards gathers behind their master. _How many men follow him? How many men have bought into his Templar lies? _Altair sights and throws two daggers, one after the other, _flick flick _into the chests of guards rushing toward him. It's easier to throw knives then to fight blade against blade, and at this point, the fewer men Altair has to bare his sword against the better.

(_"I know how hard it is to fight off several men at once. Did you think I'd fail to notice how much of the blood on the ground is yours?")_

He reaches for another dagger, but his fingers pluck at air. He's out of them, and there are four more guards coming too close too fast. A fifth lingers by the doorway to call for even more soldiers, should there be a need. Ridiculous…an entire army scrambling after one man.

De Sablé points with his sword. "Kill the cripple while his bodyguard's distracted." He meets Altair's eyes, and it's obvious he deserves his high rank: there is no kindness or mercy in his gaze. Just a cool, blood-hungry desire to be the winner of all things. "The assassin is mine…kill the hostage."

Altair stabs the first man to try it through the chest. The second wields a sharply curved dagger, not a sword, and Altair is able to use his momentum against him, grabbing his right wrist and twisting it so that the man spears himself through the thigh with his own weapon. As the soldier spasms on the ground, it's easy to slice through his stomach.

The last two Templars come at him at the same time, and they land a few nasty blows to his arms and ribs before he is able to fend them off. Killing them is a long, arduous process—longer than it should be for a man trained to kill multiple soldiers at once. By the time the last Templar drops legless and lifeless to the ground, Altair's sword is almost too heavy to swing. New gashes run down his chest and arms, smearing against the dried blood already there. He turns to face Robert, breathing hard.

The fifth man takes off back down the stairs. Altair is dimly aware of his fleeing but doesn't bother trying to prevent it. He's out of daggers and out of energy, and if he spent a month fighting off soldiers there would always be more around the next bend. It's Robert he needs to focus on, with what remains of his strength.

But it's so hard to focus on Robert when the world keeps tilting under his feet…

The Templar doesn't bother wasting time with more threats. He simply lunges, sword outstretched. Just as in the courtyard, Altair's arms shake with the force of blocking his strike. De Sablé isn't winded at _all_.

The fight goes badly from the start. Altair makes a lot of sloppy, stupid mistakes—mistakes he berates himself for even as he makes them. He's too wide open, too distracted to properly hold his guard. Trying to block Robert from Malik gives him a very limited space in which to move; his typical flowing techniques are hampered almost entirely past usefulness. There is a tenacity to the Templar's fighting that suggests he knows his advantages far too well.

Altair slides around and swings, his sword banging against Robert's. He pushes, straining sore muscles for all they're worth, his sword dipping under the weight of gravity as if it's homing for the heart. De Sablé grips the hilt of his weapon with both hands, presses downwards and _shoves_—Altair's sword is ripped from his hands. It scuttles across the ground and vanishes over the rooftop's edge.

Altair freezes. He looks at Robert with the angry, hunted look of a trapped animal. He grabs for his dagger, but it's a hopeless cause and he knows it; the smaller blade isn't meant for this kind of one-on-one fight. He isn't darting gracefully from victim to victim: he's cornering (or being cornered by) a single man with sharper teeth.

"You've kept this going for far too long," Robert says. "You've killed half my men. And for what? Your master's cryptic ravings? Is an attempt on my life worth all that it's put you through?" He nods in Malik's direction. "Is it worth what it's put _him_ through?"

"Only a madman brags of victory when he is about to be defeated," Altair retorts. It's an empty, tired threat, and neither man is fooled.

"One thing I have to give your Brotherhood credit for…you assassins are tougher than you look," Robert muses. He prods his sword at Altair almost teasingly, forcing him to scramble to avoid mocking blows. He isn't even taking the assassin seriously anymore; he watches Altair struggle to dodge, and laughs. "Nothing we did could get the man behind you to give any sort of satisfying reaction. I don't know how it's possible to ignore your enemy when he's snapping your fingers in two, but your friend managed it quite nicely."

He swings again, a real and sudden strike—Altair dives away from it, leaving Malik wide open. The assassin lands poorly, and though he bites hard enough on his lip to draw blood, he can't quite control his curse of pain. He stands up, and his left ankle promptly caves: he ends up on one knee, nine fingers digging into stone, eyes blazing with fury.

It's no use. His ankle is twisted, badly. All that he's done, the distance he's traveled…it's no use. Not now. He lifts his head to stare in defiance at De Sablé: even dying can be done with strength.

But, unbelievably, Robert turns his back on Altair and moves toward the _Dai._ He considers Malik's unconscious form for a moment. "I don't understand it. He escaped me once, but he didn't have the sense to thank his good fortunes and stay away." He kneels down, grabs Malik by the hair and yanks his body close. "The only time I saw any emotion out of him was when I mentioned that other assassin I killed back in Solomon's Temple. You remember him, I'm sure."

He glances over his shoulder at a silent and infuriated Altair, twisting Malik's hair around his fingers. "They were related, weren't they? Related, or at least close friends. Such a shame."

Robert tugs his hand; Malik's eyes flicker half-way open and the Templar smiles. With his mouth against the dying man's ear, speaking just loud enough for Altair to overhear, he murmurs, "That boy was alive for nearly an hour after you grabbed the Apple and fled. My men sliced him to pieces, and all the while he begged for you to come back and save him. He seemed so sure that you would."

The Templar finally drops him and straightens up. Turning to face Altair, he calls, "So who will you beg for now that you are—"

He has no time to finish his sentence before the assassin is upon him.

* * *

It is the last bit of strength Altair has…the last attack he'll be able to make. If it fails, he's dead. He knows this. He almost relishes it: the world is clearer when there's no other way.

His tackle leaves him on the ground, limbs tangled with Robert's—he frees his left hand and plunges it at a bit of exposed throat—Robert ducks his head and the extended hidden blade collides with the stone, snapping in two—the Templar is on his feet again, Altair gets to his own just in time for a punch to the jaw that sends him flying back—his head whacks against the ground and the night grows ever darker—he gasps—

Robert goes for his sword, dropped by the edge in the confusion, and Altair is moving in a dream, in a thick haze, watching his own body go through the motions of its last fight: and the violence sings through his bloodstream, and it's such a satisfying feeling, and it's such a shame to have to see it end—

He thinks, _if I was stronger._

He thinks, _I will not let Malik die._

Robert has his sword again but Altair doesn't trust his legs to bear his weight, so he grabs the one weapon he has left and rolls onto his side; he plunges his short blade into the only part of the Templar he can reach, which happens to be the left foot. There is no real force behind the blow, and the dagger gets stuck in the thick leather of Robert's boot. Robert snarls and kicks it out of Altair's hand. The assassin rises to his hands and knees, and wonders if teeth and bare fists will work against steel. De Sablé takes a step backwards, to steady himself…

_but there is no last step_…

The Templar's arms waver, out-stretched, as he tries desperately to balance himself with one foot dangling in mid-air. Altair watches himself answer his own question: bare fists can be quite useful. He pushes himself to his feet and shoves his hands against Robert de Sablé's chest.

Robert falls.

The Templar looks more surprised than anything as his feet slip from the edge of the roof. He holds out his arms, grabbing at nothing as if to save himself, mouth open in a yell that the wind steals away. Altair leans over the edge and watches without blinking. He wants to memorize every last, agonizing second.

It is a very long way down.

(The Creed frowns against taking pleasure in another's death. If nothing else, watching de Sablé's head aim for the pavement reminds Altair that he has yet to fully master said Creed.)

There's a lit torch attached to a building down below that lights up the road; Altair, even from his distant perch, can see the end come for the Templar in brutal detail. The street reaches up and takes Robert apart, tearing away skin and swallowing the skull. It's a bit too dark to make out the splatter of blood and guts that must be there now: the red smearing that is de Sablé's final mark.

Once, he must have been a very skilled and dedicated soldier. Once, he must have ridden into battle a confidant man, willing to raise swords against his religion's infidels. Once, he must not have been so obsessed with golden Apples and helpless worlds. Altair wonders, what is it that changed him? What hypnotic demon did he see when he held the Piece of Eden in his hands?

He looks down again. There is a small crowd gathering, but he is too far up to hear the cries. He turns away, turns to Malik—Robert Sablé is dead, but there is no time to preen.

Altair kneels by Malik, reaches out and brushes his fingers against the man's neck. Too-warm flesh and a stuttering pulse meet his touch. He lets his fingers linger a split second longer than he needs to; he does not think about it, does not acknowledge it, but later on he knows he will look back on his fingers against Malik's skin with something close to pride. He will want to tell the _Dai,_ _I am never afraid._

He moves his hand away. "Malik," he says. "It's finished. Robert is dead."

Malik does not respond.


	10. Chapter 9

AN: A very short chapter, and to make up for that the next chapter is fucking huge. There're only two chapters left, counting the epilogue-thanks so much for reviewing!

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**_Chapter Nine_**

To give himself a few extra minutes, Altair goes to the door and shuts it. He does not bother trying to jam the lock this time; the handle is made of metal, and he does not have time to waste wrestling with it. He walks back to the edge of the roof, looks down: the far-below torch has blown out, and he can no longer see Robert's body.

Behind him, there's a faint gasp as Malik drifts awake again. "Where…" He shivers. "It's cold."

Jerusalem, the summer city, is anything but cold tonight. Altair walks back over to him with a frown. Malik slumps against the assassin, his gaze drugged and unfocused. His eyes are already beginning to re-close.

"Malik," Altair says, "Try not to fall asleep."

"Tired," Malik sighs. "Just for a…little bit…"

"No. Not now."

"Jus' a little bit…Kadar…need to train with 'im later…need to rest first…"

Altair shakes him, just slightly. "Listen to me—"

"Always…listenin'. Why don't you ever…? You never do. You miss out'n you don't even…don't even realize."

"Yes. Perhaps." Altair shifts his position. If insulting his character keeps Malik conscious, so be it. "Stand up, Brother. Only for a minute."

"Barkin' orders again," Malik complains. Still, he tries weakly to push himself up on legs long past feeling. "As if you're…Al Mualim. You…aren't the Master, Altair."

"And yet people still obey me." Altair helps, as best he can, but when both men have reached their feet he has to turn around, leaving Malik to waver on his own. He isn't sure how to explain what he's attempting, isn't sure how to make his plan clear to Malik's feverish ears. "There are more guards on their way," he begins. "We have to…"

But Malik understands, somehow. "The guards…and you…and…" He nods, distracted, swaying on his feet. "You'll have to jump…like you did…like you did before. In Solomon's Temple. I can stay. You…you have to run."

"No. Not like in Solomon's Temple," Altair says. "Robert is dead, there is no reason for either one of us to stay behind."

"That isn't…that isn't how we were taught…" Malik looks at him. "You can't carry me. You'll fall."

Altair grits his teeth. Even in his delirium, the _Dai_ is hard to fool. "No," he argues, "I won't. Just do what I say, for once."

"You'll fall," Malik whispers.

"Don't doubt my skills," Altair snaps, his stressed temper flaring. "I know how to land properly, I've been making these jumps all my life. I'm not going to make a mistake just because you're around."

Malik squints his eyes in an obvious attempt to focus, to push past crippling nausea so he can grasp the gaping holes in Altair's logic. But his body is shutting down, and the task is past his limit. He stumbles forward—a half-step, a tiny step, but the pain is unrelenting and he grabs for Altair, features twisted.

The assassin takes a cautious step forward, bending slightly to take the weight of the other man's arm and pull his body up with it. Malik has his arm hooked around the base of Altair's neck, but he can't hold on: getting his fingers to bend isn't going to work this time. Altair has to make do by grabbing that arm with his right hand; at this point, there's nothing he can do but hope that Malik won't slide off.

He takes another step. Agony blossoms. He's carried injured men on his back before, plenty of times, but never when he was injured himself. Never when the injured man in question had only one arm with which to clutch his bearer.

The roof comes to an end. He steps out onto the base of the plank, testing its strength. The wind picks up, whipping at his cowl, blowing grit into his eyes. Below him is the red-smeared ground—it seems a lot further down, all of a sudden.

Malik shudders. "No, no," he moans, "I've lost him. My brother. Make him open his eyes." His head bobs in the crook between Altair's shoulder and neck; a bloody froth at the corner of his lips smears against the assassin's collar bone. "Just…go, Altair. Or you'll die too."

"Don't worry." Altair's back is beginning to ache with Malik's extra weight. He does his best to guess at calculations, at distances and angles and the consequences of the breeze. But he's never been one for studying, he'd much rather be darting through cities with a blade in either hand…

"Don't worry," he repeats, "Whatever happens, I won't let you miss the wagon."

"N-Not…I'm not…worried about that! Damn you, Altair!" Malik jerks, shifting Altair's center of balance, and for a second the plank seems to lurch away. The assassin has to take a step forward to hold onto his stability.

He's running out of plank.

"Keep still," he hisses.

Malik is insistent: "You'll die. You'll die in _front_ of me."

Altair waits a minute. There has to be some clever phrase that will get him through this—this—whatever this is. But he is skilled in all areas save one: the nuances of human interaction are beyond him. He knows loss and solitude and _I am so much better than them_ as fact and not bravado. He knows pretending not to care when Malik spits curses at him, even if those curses bite. He knows not _having_ to pretend when it comes to everyone but the _Dai_.

He knows conceit and confidence and even fear—

But he does not know this. This new feeling. This emotion that is being asked of him.

"So stubborn," Malik is mumbling. "You will die and you aren't even _afraid_. Fine. Go ahead. Kill yourself because you have't play the hero. I don't care. Why should I? Don't…don't make the mistake'f thinking I'll care at all, Altair." But he tightens his arm's grip against the assassin, even as the words drop from his mouth in a hazy slur. "I don't…I don't…"

Altair finds that he is smiling. Gently, he shifts his weight. By the far-off horizon, past the city walls, blotches of early morning light begin to appear.

"Stay still," he tells Malik again, though it's obviously a lost cause. The injured man's body is still shaking; great, involuntary tremors wrack his frame. Altair takes one last step and his feet reach the edge of the beam. He arches his shoulders against the pull of the wind, and somehow he is excited—the void calls and he is eager to answer, to feel the intoxicating rush, the tug in the pit of his stomach as the ground comes forward to greet him at last…

"Altair," Malik says. His voice is very soft. "I won't watch you die, too."

"No," says the Son of None. "You won't."

From behind them comes the crash of a door being shoved open; countless voices begin to shout. Altair does not look behind him, and he does not think about these new arrivals. He does not think any longer about distances and failed jumps. He thinks only one thing. _Malik._

"Stop, assassin! Your life is mine!"

Altair jumps.


	11. Chapter 10

AN: This chapter reached ten pages and where did these OCs come from and why am I writing about medicine when I know jack shit about medicine and and and.

I'm a bit ambivalent about this chapter; I think it needs to be here, but it was slow writing. I'm particularly ambivalent about the OCs that wandered into the story...as long as they're not too boring to read about I'll be satisfied. **skywalker05** rescued both the beginning and the end. (Words like vertiginous? I don't use words like vertiginous. I'm not sure I knew what vertiginous meant until she threw it in there.)

One more chapter to go!

* * *

**_Chapter Ten_**

From the moment he launches he knows something's gone wrong. The vertiginous drop is the same, the plunge always the same—like the air reaching out to catch him. But Malik's weight throws it off. Altair's angle is all wrong and it feels more like a fall than a jump: for a second he panics, trashing and off-tilt...

The assassin's free hand twitches as if trying to grasp at the air, and then he's squaring his shoulders and wrenching the bodyweight closer to the back of his neck, as the wind snaps at his coattails like pinions. And the panic is gone.

The world rushes past, moving too fast for color or sound, and if Altair believed in heaven he would picture it like this: a battle against forces far older than himself, a battle not meant to be won, a battle fought by assassins alone—he is only one small piece of the Creed, and yet somehow he is still in control, balancing in the downdraft of his own passing. The ground reels into his view and he is in control.

The ground—the wagon—the _impact_-!

The hay does little to soften the blow. Altair's breath is ripped from his lungs, to be replaced with dust and darkness. As if from a distance he hears a cruel _snap_ and he chokes, fighting his way towards full consciousness, because he is a fighter if nothing else and he does not know how to stop. And because he doesn't feel Malik's extra weight against his back.

Early morning air surges against his face as he shoves through a last bit of hay. He gasps, not even bothering to hide it. The wagon is deep, with hay up to Altair's neck. The street he is on is narrow and empty; there is no sign of Robert's body, but for a dark stain on the cobblestones nearby. Altair reaches an arm back below the hay and tries to massage his ankle: pain rages and roars in response. Quickly, he jerks his arm back. It's gone from twisted to broken—maybe sprained if he's lucky. Well, he's had worse.

"_I've had worse wounds than this."_

Altair's heart ricochets inside his chest. He claws through the hay, cursing because he has to do _something_ and anger is easier than fear, searching…

His fingers touch something distinctly not hay-like. He feels the rounded curve of a shoulder, brings his hand down to grab an arm only to realize that there's no arm to grab. _Damn. _He gets his arms around Malik's limp body and pulls him up, pulls them both out of the wagon in a scattering of hay. Crouching against the muddy street isn't possible right now (it puts too much pressure on his ankle) so he sits instead, propping Malik up in his arms.

Has the _Dai_ been this pale the entire time? Has there always been this much blood caked to the front of his tunic?

"Malik," Altair says. He doesn't expect an answer, isn't surprised when he doesn't get one. He checks again for a pulse, feels a faint, fumbling beat against his fingers. He lifts his head, looking up and down the empty street—there must be guards around, and close. Robert's barely been dead twenty minutes and already his body has been pulled from the road.

_Need to get up. Get up, Malik!_ The citadel stands in the middle district of Jerusalem: this section of the city generally sees fewer soldiers than in the richer areas, but it still isn't safe to linger. It's getting rapidly lighter, and soon the merchants will be setting up their shops, bringing with them plenty of guards to protect against thieves. Altair knows he needs to get to the poor district, where he can lose himself in its cavernous warrens. The poor area meanders: streets intersect and end abruptly and seem to go different places each time they're traveled. Few of the merchants on those streets can afford to hire guards; there are bound to be other crimes to hide behind.

He rises to his feet, unsteady and unsure, Malik draped over his shoulder in an attempt to keep an arm free. His ankle protests in stabs and throbbing, and his lungs burn. Altair presses himself back against a building, trying to let the shadows dissolve him as they usually do, trying for that assured calm he hasn't felt in far too long. His mind is growing dull with exhaustion—he knows it and he hates it, but there is no time for rest. The buildings tower over him, but climbing is out of the question and despite the shadows he still feels exposed.

_Need to get up. Need to. Have to. Move._

Movement from a nearby alleyway catches his eye; Altair sees a figure emerge from the dark and recoils, fumbling behind his back for a dagger only to remember he's got none left. He bares his teeth, feral and trapped, and he wonders, _how long will this battle continue_? Altair will fight to the death if need be, fight to the death and beyond, but at some point even he will need to drop his guard and remember other things…

The figure takes a slow step into the light. Altair tugs his cowl back into place, shrouding all but his blazing eyes in darkness. Standing straight is hard—his side, his ankle, Malik's weight—but he tries anyway. In fights he must always boast: he cannot help it. It's who he's always been.

In a hesitant voice, the figure whispers, "Are you…please, are you…?"

And for the second time in two days, Altair is surprised to find himself facing a woman.

He stares at her. All she has to do is peer through the fading dimness and she will see how strained a front his bravado has become. She will see his desperation—along with every soldier in Jerusalem.

But the woman sounds plenty afraid, herself; she moves a bit closer, but keeps her arms wrapped around herself in a blatant show of discomfort. She's religious, if her long brown robes say anything: they cover her from neck to wrist to ankle, baggy enough to hide _most_ of her thin form. As she speaks she pulls her black headscarf across her face, blocking her mouth and nose so that only her eyes are visible.

"I saw you," she says in a voice like wisps of cloud. "I saw you climb out from the, um. The hay." Her eyes dart nervously to Malik, and Altair tenses instinctively. She must notice, because instantly she looks down. It could just be the breeze against her robes, but the assassin is pretty sure she's trembling.

"He's hurt," she murmurs. "He needs medicine…"

"What business is it of yours?" Altair demands. He eyes her, and isn't particularly bothered when she flinches. The woman is turning red.

"Jerusalem is waking up," she says. "You won't be able to move around without being seen, especially here. There are so many guards by the great fortress."

Altair yearns for a sword. Not that he has any intention—so far—of attacking this stranger, but sliding one from its sheath is a great way to make people get to the point. "Either state your business with me, or get out of my way," he orders. His voice dips in a cruel fashion that he doesn't like, but offending strange women is currently the least of his problems.

(Malik's body is so still...)

"I can help you," she says, taking an eager step forward. "My father once sold herbs and tonics. He apprenticed under a healer as a young man, and he knows how to treat most wounds. If you want to save your friend you should at least let him—"

"Who are you that I should trust you? A lone woman, on the streets at an odd hour and without an escort…offering to help a stranger clearly not of her faith."

"Your robes and sash," she points out. "They mark you as…as an assassin."

Altair frowns. It isn't unusual for citizens to know of the Brotherhood; certainly the villages around Masayaf have no doubt as to who keeps the Christian armies at bay. But _know of_ is different than _personally recognize_: an assassin should be hidden, noticed only when he wants to be seen.

"That hardly answers my question." He advances toward her, eyes narrowed. "I am sure you know the law of this city—in effect if not written down. Those that rule Jerusalem despise the assassins as much as they do the Templars, and it is death for those who help either. Surely you know this."

"Yes," the woman whispers.

"Then why risk your life?" When she hesitates, Altair tenses again. "You _will_ answer."

"My brother was killed by soldiers," she says. "I was walking with him to market and accidently bumped into a guard…the man was bored and he—he grabbed me…"

She flinches again, draws her headscarf tighter against her face. "My brother tried to defend my honor and was killed for it. Some other soldiers cut him to pieces while the man holding me laughed. I screamed and screamed…"

Finally, she looks up and meets Altair's eyes. Despite her shyness her gaze does not waver. The morning light catches the golden flecks in her brown eyes.

"I was saved by an assassin…by one of you. I don't know his name. He leapt down from a rooftop and left the street drenched in blood. Then he was gone, being chased by a dozen men. He could be dead, I do not know."

The woman takes a deep breath. "I would repay this debt. Though my family is poor and we have little to give. I want to help you, assassin, and I know enough of medicine to see how badly you and your friend need the help. Please."

Altair considers her story, and even as he does so he is listening to the sounds of Jerusalem as the city stirs. In the distance, soldiers are shouting. A shadow rings the street: high up above, an eagle has begun circling the fortress's tallest tower.

"Very well," he says finally. "I will follow you. But if this is a trick…"

He does not finish his sentence. He does not need to.

* * *

The woman leads Altair through maze-like side streets, avoiding the larger roads, which have already begun to fill with crowds. The night's darkness is almost totally gone by now, and narrow-eyed soldiers are everywhere. They are looking for him…

Altair pauses only once, to check Malik's pulse. For a sickening second he can't find one, and his eyes must give his rage away, because the woman looks nervous and pulls back. Then the unconscious man groans and coughs up a bit of bloody phlegm. Altair finds one last bit of his robes that hasn't yet been stained and carefully wipes the spittle from Malik's lips.

"Almost there," he says as he straightens back up, and his gaze falls on those of the woman. "We are almost to safety, Brother."

Have the stranger's eyes softened? Or is Altair's mind too cloudy from pain and stress and the ever-growing heat of the day?

The cobblestone streets slowly give way to muddy paths; Altair is having trouble navigating the uneven ground, since his ankle is starting to swell. The buildings here are smaller and uglier, and the crowds clustered around them are ringed with beggar-women and filthy merchant's stalls. But his guide, for all her modesty, is not taken aback by the new surroundings; she side-steps an old drunk lying in the gutter without blinking.

"Strange, how you happened to be so far from home so early in the morning," Altair comments, voice gruff with suspicion. He is cradling Malik in his arms again, his grip growing tighter as the pain in his ankle grows worse. "An interesting coincidence."

The woman—she has not offered her name, and the assassin has not asked—colors. "A coincidence is all it was," she insists. "I swear by the mercy of Allah and His Prophet."

"Then I am to accept this _good fortune_ as nothing more? I am simply to be grateful for my luck?"

"Being lucky would satisfy most people. Is it not enough for you to know that you have escaped with your life, with the life of your friend?"

Altair purses his lips. "You should be grateful that you happened—by pure and wholesome chance, of course—to find me now, and not half a year ago."

"And why is that?"

"Half a year ago I would have killed you for the lecture."

The woman glances over her shoulder at him, frightened. "But assassins…you don't kill the innocent. You…that is, I have heard…"

"We don't. I have." _Malik was the one who refused to break the Creed. And yet he was the one who paid for its being broken. _Altair frowns into the woman's startled eyes. "As I said. You are fortunate to have found me now."

She stops walking. The narrow street continues past her, flecked with dark puddles that do not smell entirely of mud. Altair stops as well, secretly glad for the pause—he shifts weight off his throbbing ankle and does his best to flat-out ignore his side.

"If you must know," the woman says, making every effort to keep her tone calm, "I was visiting my brother. When he—when he died, we buried him besides my mother… she died years ago, when the family fortunes were stronger, and so she was buried in the rich district. My father was determined to see his only son given to that ground as well. It was all he could do."

She sighs. "Affording him a decent burial meant giving up what little we had left. We moved here…" She gestures, ambivalent, gathering the fetid mounds of garbage piled against crumbling buildings, the dark alleys, the beggars, into one sweeping motion. "But I still go and visit when I can."

"You slink about at dangerous hours, so that you can be home before your father awakens and realizes you'd left."

The woman looks at him, surprisingly defiant. "He would beat me if he knew I went. He says it is too dangerous."

"He is right."

"I know. But should I forget about my family? Allah forbid I should let cowardice keep me from—"

"Allah would rather your father lose what family there is left?"

"A nonbeliever should not use His name so lightly," she fires back. "You are a hypocrite, assassin. If he dies," –and she nods her head at Malik's crumpled form— "Will you not give him a respectful funeral, though it might be dangerous? Will you not visit him, though he will never know you are there? Or will you forget?"

"Stupid questions," Altair hisses. "He will not die."

"He is dying already. Surely assassins can recognize death?"

It's all the Son of None can do to control himself. "We recognize it, woman. We do not fear it."

His guide studies Altair's churning face, peering with wondering eyes. "No," she whispers. "You're wrong. You're lying. You do fear death. Just not your own."

"You are idiotic. This conversation is idiotic."

"Maybe you aren't afraid to die, but you're afraid that _he_ is going to die, it's obvious just from the way you hold him. You are _afraid_—"

Altair lunges forward, forgetting all about his ankle, looming over the woman until she cowers and looks away. "I am an assassin," he says, with words sharp as blades. Bile rises at the back of his throat. "I fear _nothing_."

(_Nothing is true_.)

"I will waste no more time with this inanity," he says. "You told me your father could heal him. For your own sake, pray to your god that he can."

"Perhaps you should be the one to pray," the woman says. Then, before Altair can respond, she hurries down the alley and turns a corner. The assassin follows, angry, limping slightly as he sloshes through the mud. The new road is even narrower and dirtier than the last, but one small building on Altair's left seems well cared for: it isn't much more than a one-story hut, but the walls have been whitewashed and there is a scrap of fabric hanging in the one window.

The women pushes open the door and ducks through the low-ceilinged entryway. Altair steps through without waiting to be invited; his eyes adjust to the dim light and he takes quick note of his surroundings. The room he has entered is a typical example of the poverty-stricken area they're in: tiny, gloomy, heaps of blankets in one corner and a soot-smeared fireplace in another. Still, there are attempts at decoration, found in the single flower blooming in an old can by the window, and in the colorful curtain hung against the far wall. The dirt floor has been swept smooth. When the curtain flutters, Altair realizes that it blocks a second room of some kind.

He has been trained to distrust rooms he cannot see into. He frowns.

The woman turns to face him. "Put him down on those blankets," she says, "and when my father gets here I will explain to him—"

"Hadiya?" The curtain across the second doorway is brushed aside, and a man, bearded and stooped with age, steps into the room, squinting in the darkness with anxious eyes. "I heard your voice—you are here? You are back?"

"Father…" Altair's guide moves towards the newcomer. "Yes, I—"

"Idiot girl!" The old man's voice shakes with anger. "Silly fool! What were you doing out at such an hour? I awoke early and you were gone—do you have any idea how dangerous these streets can be at night? What could you _possibly_ have been doing?"

"Father, it was entirely innocent—"

"Innocent! Out at night, and without an escort…oh, Allah, save me from the innocence of troublesome children!"

Altair, listening to this family spat, is bathed in waves of impatience. He takes a step forward, and the old man's eyes spot him at last. They widen in what can only be described as horror.

"This…who are…" Stunned, he manages a hoarse whisper: "Daughter, who is this? You are out at night with a strange man and then you…you bring him _home_?"

"Please, listen to me, it can all be explained!"

"Save your loose words, girl, I see the explanation right before my eyes! Allah strengthen me, this is too harsh a blow. That the one child I have left should be such a…such a…Oh, daughter, to put yourself in danger for a _man_…" The old man's voice trembles again, but he draws himself up to his full height as he turns to face Altair. "Stranger," he begins, still full of mournful pride, "That my only child is deceitful is terrible enough, but you did not need to come here and preen about the fact in my home! Get your insolent self out of my sight before I—"

"I have no interest in your daughter," Altair snaps. _I have no time for this! _"I care only for your skills as a physician, if you possess none then tell me and I will find someone who does!"

They stare at each other: one shaking with indignant, bewildered fear, the other with desperation and rage. Then there comes a low whine. Malik's face seems to cramp and he jerks as a fresh wave of blood gushes from his mouth. Altair has to quickly kneel to the ground, holding the _Dai_ upright so that he does not choke.

The old man gives Altair a sudden, sharp look. "Oh…" he says, "I did not see…"

Malik cries out again, his tone as strangled as the expression on Altair's face. The assassin runs a hand against Malik's forehead but he is helpless, so _helpless_…Altair can do nothing, and he has never felt so small.

He looks up at the old man with naked pleading in his eyes. "He's been stabbed," Altair says, "He's been stabbed and he's…"

(The assassin cannot bring himself to say _dying_. He is not superstitious, and looks down on those who are, but old wives' tales come to his mind unbidden: the power and danger of words, the risk of saying something for fear it might come true…)

"He needs medicine. I am no healer, and he…" The Son of None lowers his gaze. "He is my comrade, and he was injured on my account. I cannot allow him to die."

From behind her father, Hadiya mumbles, "I went to visit Irfan's grave and I saw them fall. They needed help…Father, these men are—"

The old man holds up a hand. "Shh. Yes, I see what they are," he says softly, eyeing Altair's once-white robes and cowl.

"You have to help him," Altair says, smothering what's left of his pride. "Please."

"Altair," Malik moans. "Don't l-leave me behind, you son of a bitch."

The assassin shifts the dying man in his arms again, not knowing what else to do. "This time I haven't left," he tells him. When he looks back up, the old man's eyes look kind and sad.

"I am no great doctor," Hadiya's father says. "I sold tonics and bandaged up bruises, and I have not done even that for over a year. Homebrewed poultices won't heal a stab wound. You must take him to a proper hospital."

"Impossible. They are too well-guarded." Altair does not know how to beg. It's difficult to channel an emotion more powerful than rage. "Once he is stable there are other places I can go. But he will die before I reach those places if his wound is not treated!"

He curses, taking solace in the harshness of the words. It's true: every city has backup Bureaus, watched over by the soldiers of each city's _Dai_. They are small and out-of-the-way as a rule, meant only to be used in emergencies—no doubt other assassins have already discovered the compromise of Jerusalem's usual place of safety and have retreated to the secondary location as a result.

That secondary location, located just outside the city's walls, is watched over by Malik's men—Altair knows some of them, and knows they are all fiercely loyal to their master. All the _rafiks_ of the Brotherhood are given basic training in healing; one of Malik's responsibilities as leader of the Jerusalem Bureau has always been to heal assassins arriving weak and bloody. How many times has Malik, however grudgingly, tended to Altair…how many times has he slapped clean bandages across some new wound, or rubbed soothing salves into injuries born of arrogance and haste?

Even after Solomon's Temple…even when Altair could read the sneering hate in Malik's eyes as he cleaned the results of the Son of None's run-ins with arrows and swords. Even when to sit in silence as Malik's hands brushed against his flesh was a painful lesson in humility. Even when Malik despised his charge, even when he was too furious to look Altair in the face, he tended to his duties…

_And if I can get him to his men they will tend to theirs. But he will never make it out of the city like this; he will die before we leave the district!_

"You must help him," Altair repeats. "Your daughter said you would know what to do. Give him enough strength to last until I can bring him to a safer place."

Hadiya's father pauses. In his traditional robes, which swamp his frame, he looks aged and worn and weary. But he gazes at Altair's hands clenched around Malik's trembling shoulders, and it seems as though he stands straighter, for just a little while.

"Daughter," he says, "Run to the market and fetch me some supplies. Go to Muhammad's store in the main square for the medicines—I set his son's broken arm once, he will keep quiet. I will give you a list of tinctures to buy. You know what else we need."

"Y-Yes," Hadiya stammers, "Oh—yes, of course, Father."

"And be quick," the old man instructs. "Bleeding can be staunched, but the chance for infection has me worried. No being in this world save Allah Himself can save a man once his organs begin to rot."

He bends down by Altair and Malik, wincing as he bends aching knees. "I cannot cure him of this wound," he says, reaching out with surprisingly steady hands to lift the _Dai's_ tunic. The soiled fabric sticks to the skin in gummy clumps, and the old man twists his mouth in silent apprehension. "But if I can keep it clean and stop the bleeding, he may yet last."

"I understand."

"No, boy, I don't think you really do. I know your kind. Because you have a sword strapped to your hip you think you can slaughter death whenever you please. And then when you get hurt you're surprised…This is a bad wound, and in a bad place. Better to get your arm chopped off than to be speared through the belly. Which…" The old man eyes Malik's sewn-up sleeve and sighs. "Tough luck for this one. He'll probably die."

"I have already lost my sword." The assassin stares down at the _Dai._ "And I will keep him alive."

"It's not up to you, then, is it?" Hadiya's father begins to carefully unwind what's left of the makeshift bandages. Malik shudders with every faint touch, so that Altair has to grip the man tightly to keep him still.

He hesitates. "…Thank you. I owe you much for this."

But Malik's last chance is studying the bloody gash intently and does not answer. "Hmm…" he mutters to himself. He presses a finger against the sore, swollen flesh above the wound itself, and looks grimly pleased when Malik screams, nearly tearing himself loose from Altair's clutches. "Good," he says, "He's got some strength left. Hadiya, come here and I will tell you what to buy…"

* * *

Hadiya, true to her word, returns from the market quickly. "No one asked me any questions," she says, "but there are more soldiers there then I have ever seen before."

"They are looking for me," Altair mutters. He is sitting on the pile of blankets in one corner, drained to his bones. The blankets are scratchy, but even the dirt floor feels soft to his throbbing body, and sleep gives him alluring looks. Stubborn to the last, he watches the old man bend over Malik's unconscious form.

"They will not find you here," Hadiya says. She sits and, surrounded by her recent purchases, begins mixing various herbs in a small, clay bowl. Her father, wrapped in his work, has yet to acknowledge her presence.

"You underestimate how determined they are," Altair says. "I've killed Robert de Sablé."

"The Christian king's man? Why should our soldiers care?"

"Jerusalem is corrupt," her father mutters as he dips a cloth into a bowl of water by his side. "Cowards and thieves. Not like it used to be. Not one of these soldiers is worth what he shits out, Allah forgive me but also realize that it's the truth."

He rises to his feet with a grunt, eyeing Malik critically. The _Dai_ has been stripped from the waist up, giving everyone in the room a good look at the many scars that fleck his chest and arm. _Marks of an assassin,_ Altair thinks, picturing the blemishes on his own self, of which he was once so proud.

The stump of Malik's arm is also visible. He looks so damaged: scarred and bruised and missing a limb. He looks so _fragile_, though truthfully he is anything but. Hadiya stares in quiet horror; her father is gazing at the injured man's fingers with a strange expression on his face.

The old man is bloody up to both elbows by now. "I need to wash up," he says. "Hadiya, finish putting the tonic together and then give it to him, but _slowly_. You can wrap the bandages when you're done." He starts to leave the room, but hesitates, looking from his preoccupied daughter to Altair and back.

The assassin rolls his eyes. "I have no interest in—" But the old man is gone before he can finish. Hadiya sits by Malik and lifts his head into her lap. For all her piety she doesn't seem shy around him or his half-naked body; she is obviously used to helping with her father's patients.

"Poor man," she croons as Malik's eyes flutter. Altair watches without moving as she feeds him bits of the clay bowl's contents. Malik chokes down what he is being given and sighs…

"Here."

Startled, Altair blinks and rouses himself. Hadiya's father is standing in front of him, holding out a small glass filled with a clear liquid.

"Drink this," the old man says. "Then I'll take a look at your side."

Altair shakes his head. "I am fine. Malik is your patient, tend to him."

"I've done all I can for him. You, on the other hand…"

"I am fine."

"You are bleeding all over my floor, which you'd have noticed if you weren't so exhausted. You should rest, at least."

"No. Once Malik is stable we need to leave."

"There are so many guards!" Hadiya cuts in. "Stay here until night falls, at least. Your friend needs to be kept still for the next few hours anyway."

"It would not be wise for me to linger." Altair stares hard at the old man. "You know what I am. What we both are. If the guards were to find me here you know…"

"I know that when my daughter was being harassed by drunken thugs, it was one of you who saved her," Hadiya's father says with some defiance. "And I know that this will take the edge off the pain, clear your thinking." He thrusts the glass in Altair's face. "I will cram this down your throat if you don't take it from me. That's another thing I know."

Altair purses his lips and shakes his head.

"Bah. You watch that boy like a hawk." The old man turns to watch as Hadiya begins to wrap clean bandages around Malik's wound. Malik groans deep in his throat, thrashes a bit—Hadiya pauses in her work to run a wet cloth over his forehead. She quiets him, and when she resumes bandaging the wound her fingers are light and gentle.

Her father looks and sounds pleased: "It's a shame she's a woman. She would have been an excellent healer. Not like her brother, he had no head for it…" He looks back at Altair. "Drink this or I'll make you sit outside. It'll be hard for you to pull your guard dog routine when you're stuck in the mud with the drunks."

Altair's eyes flash. "Do you really think that's a threat you can follow through on?"

"Do you want to find out?"

The tension in the air crackles. Altair sneers in frustration. "Fine," he snaps, and grabs the glass. With one last glance in Malik's direction, he swallows the tonic in a single gulp—and then gags as the liquid scorches a path down his throat. Heat sizzles in the pit of his stomach, causing his face to flush, but the world _does_ seem a bit clearer.

The old man grins: "You don't drink much, do you?" Altair ignores him and stares past…the _Dai's_ breathing isn't quite as labored now…

"Take off your shirt. I'll clean off that gash on your side for you."

"Wait." Rising to unsteady and swollen feet, Altair makes his way back to Malik's side. He kneels down, stares hard at closed eyes, looking for some sign that the crisis is past. "Brother," he says, mostly to himself.

Malik cracks open one eye and looks up at the assassin for a moment. "Oh," he says, voice sluggish. "Oh. Kadar told me…" Then he mumbles and drifts back into his fog.

"Don't bother him," Hadiya scolds, "He needs to rest. Let him sleep."

_He's sleeping. Not unconscious. Sleeping._ Altair is glad for his cowl, glad for the shadows. There is the smallest of swaggers in his step as he turns away.

* * *

The old man cleans Altair's injuries, and Malik sleeps without stirring, and Hadiya casts shy eyes in the Son of None's direction as she washes the floor of blood. Altair barely notices her glances, he is so worn down. He cannot rest before the mission is finished and the mission won't be finished until Malik is healthy and Jerusalem's Bureau secure, but Altair is so _tired_…

"It is getting dark," the old man says. "Will you leave now?"

"You should stay," Hadiya says with a scowl. At some point she'd forgotten herself and let her headscarf loosen, so that the bottom half of her face is finally visible; the fabric now lies bunched up towards the back of her head, revealing the top of her forehead and several inches of brown hair. "What a waste of hard work if you leave just to run into some soldier's sword."

Altair straightens his cowl. The weight of his besmeared robes drags against him, and he is painfully aware of his missing sword. And his daggers, and his short blade, and…

"I will avoid the soldiers," he says. "There is no other way."

Hadiya's father bends over Malik and checks his bandages one last time. "He's stable enough," the old man decides. "But you'd better be quick about getting him wherever you're going. If that wound starts gushing in the middle of the city you might as well find a quiet corner and let him die."

"He will not—"

"I know, I know. You're the man who can hold off death with his bare hands and a snarl. Now, I'm not _nearly_ so skilled, but I like to think that I have _some_ knowledge of the human body's limits and I'm telling you—if he starts bleeding again the way he was when you staggered in, he won't make it." The old man gives the assassin a stern frown, his eyes reflecting Altair's fatigue. "Especially out there. Too many people wandering around with open sores and plagues and who knows what else."

"You've made your point." Altair grits his teeth.

The old man's voice is very gentle. "You've done all you could for him. Sometimes death is the kindest choice, and it is not given to man to understand Allah's will—"

"Allah can will whatever He'd like. But Malik isn't going to die, whatever the whims of your over-confident god."

Altair bends down and scoops the _Dai_ back into his arms, Hadiya watching carefully to make sure the wound isn't needlessly jostled. Behind him, the old man groans at the blasphemy.

"Daughter, what kind of demon did you bring into my house?" He whirls about, flustered and indignant. "So now you cavort with strangers and heretics both!"

Altair adjusts his grip on Malik, carefully. He turns to face Malik's savior, but Hadiya's father is too busy gathering up his supplies, being none too quiet about the task in his righteous fury. "Old man…" the assassin begins.

"Allah will strike me down for helping you, do you realize that?" A clattering of bowls: the old man is being needlessly noisy at this point. "So?" he says querulously. "What else did you want? Perhaps to spit on the Prophet's name? Or to explain to me how a man you're so protective over manages to lose an arm and probably his last five fingers as well?"

"You know what I am," Altair says, calm as ever. "The Assassin's Order owes you much for what you've done. What you've both done."

"Hmph." The old man rises to his feet but refuses to meet Altair's eyes. Hadiya, in the process of rewrapping her headscarf, flushes. "I didn't expect to be paid," her father grunts, "Although I'll remind you that I hardly have the money to spend on medicine for every chopped-up heretic who gets dragged through my door."

"I have no money with which to repay you." Altair narrows his gaze. "But I can assure you the gratitude of the Brotherhood…and we do not forget our debts."

"Yes," the old man murmurs, "I can imagine…"

It is Hadiya who opens the door. Jerusalem is once again hidden in darkness. Altair knows he won't be able to climb rooftops and reach Malik's men the easy way—but nothing of this mission has been easy, and he will rise to the challenge again and again. Hadiya finds the courage to look straight up at him, but neither of them speaks because there isn't much to say. Her father looks at the two of them and sighs heavily, and if Altair had the time to explain how little the man needs worry about—

Well. He doesn't have the time. He is an assassin, not a romantic (the two are eternally opposed), and though he can certainly read the foolish bit of hope in Hadiya's eyes he doesn't have much of an inclination to consider it seriously. He isn't a Muslim, for one thing—he isn't _interested_, and though he will be forever grateful he highly doubts he will ever see Hadiya or her father again.

Altair's gratitude is a strange thing, subtle and unsaid. Though he has changed greatly over the past few months (over the past few days), he will never give much of himself away…

He steadies himself for a long, tense run. Malik, half-awake, realizes that he is in Altair's arms and mutters something suitably derogatory. From down the street comes a yell—merchant, drunkard, or guard, it's impossible to tell. Still, Hadiya strains her eyes, peering through the dim evening light.

"There aren't usually too many guards in this district," she says, turning back to Altair. "Though I really think you should wait a little longer—"

But she is speaking to the dusty air: the assassin is already gone.


	12. Chapter 11

AN- Argh, this fic is just never going to end. A month of debate later, I've changed my mind yet again and divided up the epilogue. So _this_ is the last chapter and _next_ chapter will be the epilogue, I swear. And it won't take me a month to write, either. Thanks to **skywalker05 **for the description help, as well as the epic debates over characterization.

EDIT 4/10/11: Minor typos and grammatical fixing.

* * *

**_Chapter Eleven_**

For all the bloodshed, life goes on. This is only somewhat surprising.

Outside Jerusalem's massive walls, the world is quiet and green. The main road in and out of the city is, by the entrance gates, lined with merchants trying to snare the passing crowds, but that din fades quickly. A few turns, a few hills, and the bustle of the city is lost in a land of endless fields, an occasional ramshackle hut the only real sign of civilization. The road drifts along, with many a curve or meander—it, as with so much else, moves slowly under the weight of summer's heat.

A little less than half-way between Jerusalem and the nearest village, Altair rides as though King Richard himself is giving chase. His horse snorts, tired, but the assassin only gives it a wordless murmur of comfort and presses on.

Finally, a stone structure comes into view, its thatched roof resting under the branches of a spindly tree. Another tree, equally skinny, stands a little ways past the front door, and in its half-hearted shade two men, dressed in white, swat away flies and look bored. To any passing stranger, they probably appear as nothing more than a couple of idle farmers, waiting out the hottest hours in the day. It would take someone really _looking_ to notice that both men wear swords strapped to their sides.

Altair allows his horse to slow to a stop and dismounts. His side twinges, but—as ever—he ignores it.

"Safety and peace," he says as he strides past the building's guards.

"You met successfully with your man in the village?" one of the guards calls. Altair slows his pace and glances over, impatient.

"Yes. The informer will ensure that Al Mualim is alerted." The Son of None sets his jaw. "Why I had to ride half an hour's distance just to give the messenger his message…"

"This place is usually pretty quiet," the other guard says, lazily. "Might look suspicious if it's suddenly flooded with people at all hours."

"Bad enough that you keep storming in and out, Brother," the first guard adds. "If you're going to stay here you could at least stay _still_." He mutters, "Not that it makes any sense for you to still be here. There's already been a new building secured in Jerusalem, hasn't there? No need to keep using the secondary location."

Altair readjusts the sword at his hip and smirks. "A shame," he says, "that you must now work for the Brotherhood, instead of lounging around as you have always done. Such a job as yours has been must be quite enjoyable. Perhaps when I am too old for assassinations, I will try it for myself."

The two guards mumble and flush and look absolutely anywhere but in Altair's direction. The assassin turns on his heel and heads for the building.

"Ass," grumbles one of the guards once Altair is presumably beyond hearing range. The Son of None hears it, perfectly, and pictures the reaction the man would have if he knew; the thought is enough to make him smile as he pulls open the door.

* * *

The room he enters is dim and silent. The three men already within are no door-guards, and they all glance knowingly at Altair as he enters. The assassin has already become used to their constant presence, as he has become used to the door on the far wall being ever closed. He has become used to the out-of-the-way corner in which he sits and waits…waits as the other men are waiting, watching the door but seeing something else entirely.

Waiting.

All three men are assassins in their own right, and they are respectful but not humbled by—or, indeed, particularly concerned with—Altair's high rank. They do not need him there; they would not care if he left and never returned. They rarely speak to him, a courtesy Altair is only too pleased to return. No doubt they blame him for what happened, at least in part.

For a week now, they have been there, speaking in low voices to each other or to the doctor when he comes. If Altair is there for meals, they feed him. If he chooses to sleep in his corner at night, they do not protest. If they have noticed that, with the exception of his quick ride to the village a few hours ago, Altair has always been there during meals, has always chosen to sleep in that corner, they have not said. They have not asked him if, after a week, the master assassin doesn't have somewhere else he needs to be.

(Perhaps they understand, at least in part. They don't understand all of it, not even Altair understands _all_ of it, but they are assassins themselves, with their own missions, and yet—they wait as well. Altair has only just begun to feel comfortable with that kind of camaraderie. A year ago he would have called them all fools, himself included.)

The darkness only makes the heat worse. Altair can feel himself sweating as he moves towards his corner. Most of his mind is taken up by that closed door, and the rest by his grousing discomfort, and so he almost doesn't hear one of the three men say, "He asks for you, Brother."

Altair stops. Turns around. Regards the man who spoke. The man's eyes give nothing away. For a moment, the master assassin can find no adequate words. Then:

"He's awake?" he demands. "Since when?"

"Shortly after you left this morning."

"Fully conscious? The healer has been told?"

"Yes." The man's voice is emotionless. Behind him, the other two assassins shift restlessly in place. "He wanted to know where you were. We told him. He said he wanted to speak with you when you returned."

Altair lets his hand drift back towards his sword. It's heavy against his side, all the more so because his side isn't quite healed enough to comfortably bear it, but its being there is an instinctive comfort. The three men are watching him, silently, and he feels at an uncharacteristic loss.

For the vigil to end while he was away is anti-climactic, but no less stressful...

"Very well," he says finally. "If that is what he wants."

He starts for the door, stops, reconsiders. Then, with a rustle of fabric and a certain tightness to his jaw, Altair strips himself of his sword, his daggers, even his hidden blade. He leaves it all piled in his corner of the room; after a final bit of internal deliberation, he lets his cowl slip down around the base of his neck.

The door is pulled open, and Altair is bare and defenseless as he slips inside.

* * *

The room is splintered. The air splits with smells of rot and bile on one side—war, famine, all the sundry plagues—and the sickly-sweet tang of tallow on the other. A familiar smell: the torches in the fortress had given off a similar stink.

Comfort and cruelty, joined together in this place. The candles give off occasional puffs of black smoke that twist like rivulets up toward the roof. A hole has been cut in the wooden ceiling and a cloth staked over it so that the smoke, but not the light, can escape. Darkness clusters near the ceiling like an advancing army. Altair feels naked and light without his weapons. Every movement of his arms seems too quick, too stick-thin.

He moves uneasily forward, towards the bed against the far wall. This is not the first time the secondary Bureau has been put into frantic use, and the bed bares the marks of former occupants: deep furrows on its side, left there as reminders of agony by some long-ago patient. Long nails on pale hands, perhaps, dredging up the splinters out of the wood and into the pads of trembling fingers, barely feeling that small pain over the steady torture of the bonesaw-doctors and their blades.

Everything here bears its jagged wounds. Stark, flickering shadows, armed guards, sharp smells. Someone has taken precautions with the candles, set them in crudely worked iron plates with fluted edges to prevent them from falling over. One precaution in a cramped, smoke-smelling place where every edge speaks of aftermaths.

Malik is sitting, propped up by pillows, the bed sheets drawn to his waist. Swaths of fresh bandages crisscross his bare chest and stomach, and wind their way through his fingers. Dark bruising rings his tired eyes. He glances up, and his gaze takes in Altair—he goes very still, a dozen emotions flicking across his face in quick succession.

Altair halts, still several inches from the bed. He finds himself wrestling with some emotion that simply _cannot_ be nervousness; he opens his mouth but doesn't know what to say. They stare at each other and the stillness lingers on.

Finally, Malik speaks. "Altair," he says, his voice hoarse and low. He sounds lucid enough—certainly better than he did the last time they spoke—but his words come out slow and sticky, and his gaze is missing some of its usual sharp bite. "Has the master assassin come to gloat?"

Altair chooses his words carefully: "Not today, Brother."

"That is a surprise. For once you have reason to, and yet you aren't taking advantage?" Malik eyes him. "You really have changed."

"Malik—"

"Not even a smug glance? No lectures on how I let my guard down? You were given the chance to play the heroic rescuer, I expected at least a snide comment or two." He drawls this with his lips twisted into a sarcastic half-smirk; this is how their conversations always are, with a little tinge of bitterness warping even the politest words.

And normally Altair wouldn't question it, but after the last two weeks he doesn't have the stomach for the ire. All that has happened between them—he has had to humble himself quite a bit already, and if doing so again is what it will take to smooth things out now, so be it.

"Malik," he says. "How are you feeling?"

The _Dai_ looks surprised. "…I've felt better," he finally says, eyeing Altair uncertainly. "My fingers will supposedly heal, provided that I don't plan on using them whatsoever for the next half a year."

Altair scoffs. "In two days I am sure you will be throwing knives around, surgeon's orders or no. You have never made a good invalid, Malik."

"Mm. Perhaps not." Malik, probably unconsciously, lifts his hand to rub at the stump of his left arm. The movement must hurt, because he winces and lets his right arm drop. "I'll have some interesting scarring on my side, but that wound is also healing. It hurts like a demon, but…"

_Worse wounds,_ Altair thinks. He pauses. The words clump anxiously at the back of his throat; he licks his dry lips, burning with the knowledge that he is adrift in a sea he has never been able to swim. "I…am glad that you are awake. You were unconscious for so long. I thought perhaps…" He gives a fierce shake of his head. "I am glad that I was wrong."

Malik stares at him in blatant astonishment, confusion springing in his eyes even as he manages a faint, "So am I."

More silence. Malik looks confused and edgy: not surprising considering how much pain he must be in. Altair, busy cursing himself for the awkwardness of a second ago, just looks grumpy.

"My men told me about those people you found," the _Dai_ says after a very uneasy moment. "The woman and her father. It isn't like you, to trust strangers…"

"I did not have much of a choice," Altair points out, "considering my accomplice was missing a large chunk of his side. It was either trust them or have him mark a trail in gushing blood to this place." He smirks. This is ground he trusts. "For someone so stealthy, you're rather _obvious_ about your injuries."

"And for a master assassin, you're rather stupid," Malik counters, almost cheerfully. "You're the worst kind of novice."

"I think I should have left you in the fortress."

"I would have haunted you to your grave," Malik promises. "One of my men left about an hour ago to go find the people you described. It shouldn't be too hard." He meets Altair's eyes. "They will want for nothing, after this."

"Good. They risked more than most would have."

Malik raises an eyebrow. "Caring about someone other than yourself? You are full of surprises today, Altair. Perhaps I should be attacked more often." He winces suddenly, pressing the palm of his hand to just above the mass of bandages on his side.

Altair smiles, a bit bitterly. "I would not recommend it."

"Mh." Malik nods his head, drained. "So what has kept you here? Under the circumstances I expected you to return to Al Masyaf right away."

Altair gives a jerky shrug of his shoulders. "I sent a messenger," he says.

"Why did you not go yourself?"

Another shrug. "I want to ride for Arsuf first. Just because de Sablé is dead does not mean his plan has died with him."

"My men tell me it's been a week. You could have reached Arsuf twice over by now, and yet you waited."

Altair glares at him. "You were not the only man injured in that fortress. Riding such a great distance while still hurt is—"

"Something you have done many times," Malik finishes for him. "You'll have to come up with a better excuse…" His voice trails off and his eyes widen; he presses his hand to his side again, struggling to mask a grimace as it crosses over his face. What little color there was in his cheeks drains away quickly, and he slumps down further against the bed.

Alarmed, Altair takes a step forward, but Malik waves him off, almost angrily, and forces himself upright again, grunting with the effort. "I'm fine," he snaps in response to the other man's unasked question. "Stop hovering so much."

"You're hardly 'fine'."

The _Dai_ bristles. "Then I am not fine," he says. "Either way I do not need to be treated as…as a dying man."

Altair looks into Malik's narrowed eyes, reads the silent plea he finds there. Slowly, he nods. _You have not changed,_ he thinks. _You are still an assassin. Neither one of us knows how to be anything but._

Malik relaxes a bit, but his face is still tense and drawn. Altair wonders at the persistence of the heavy unease permeating the room—wonders if things between the two of them will ever _not_ be so disquieting—only to have Malik interrupt his thoughts. The _Dai's_ voice is quiet, almost unnaturally so, and his gaze drifts away from Altair's face as he speaks.

"Just now, you mentioned Robert de Sablé. It is true, then? He is dead?"

"Yes. Thrown from his mighty fortress. I saw him fall." Altair allows himself a bit of a sneer. "He died screaming. A coward's death."

"Fitting." Malik looks thoughtful. "I thought I remembered seeing that. My memories of last week are rather…uncertain…"

"What else do you remember?"

Malik leans back against the pillows. "Well, I remember the Bureau coming under attack. Robert sent many men, more then I could fight off on my own."

"You left your mark," Altair points out. "I saw the dead body."

Dark amusement flickers in Malik's eyes. "Only one? They must have removed the other bodies by the time you arrived. I killed three Templars that day."

"Impressive."

"For your sake I'll ignore the sarcasm. Mm." The thoughtful look returns to Malik's face. "Robert de Sablé was waiting at the fortress. He…"

"What?" Altair leans forward in a burst of wild energy. His lips pull back against his teeth in a snarl. "_What_ did he do?"

The injured man raises an eyebrow. "He _is_ dead, isn't he? Let us just say that he wanted you to join us." Malik flexes his hand, slowly. "He wanted you to join us _very_ badly."

"He wanted to die. And I was more than willing to give him what he wanted."

"Yes." The _Dai_ hesitates. "He said some very strange things, while I was still conscious enough to note them."

"Robert was a fool," Altair says with force. "His lunatic ravings served no purpose."

"But he said he was not working alone. He said there was someone else working to bring about this betrayal."

"Can you expect a fool to make sense? Let him take his rambling to the grave—"

"Don't be so _rash_, Altair," Malik growls, and the assassin subsides. "How did Robert discover the Bureau if he was working alone?"

"I don't doubt he had help from other Templars, but…"

"_None_ of them should know our order's secrets. Do you think I kept a signpost tacked to the front door? I guard my place well, be assured of _that_." Malik frowns. "They even knew to attack when no one but myself was inside. Someone had to betray us to the Templars."

Altair narrows his eyes. "Then they will pay for their betrayal," he says, "whoever they are. Robert de Sablé was an idiot to give so much of his plan away, and his corrupt order will suffer for it. Forget about him, Brother—"

"He mentioned Kadar," Malik murmurs, and Altair feels his heart freeze inside his chest. "He remembered watching my brother die."

The room is suddenly airless, suddenly heavy with the scent of melted candle wax and decay. Altair will never be as skilled in handling conversations as he is in handling a sword; these words are daggers he has not trained with and he is gashed straight through. He says Malik's name, because it is the only thing he can think to say, but there is no strength in his tone and the _Dai_ ignores him.

"He said Kadar was still alive when I escaped…but I never would have left if there was even the slightest chance…" Malik gazes at Altair's astounded eyes. "You lauded my dedication to the Brotherhood, back in the fortress," he says with an ugly, twisted smile. "But the Piece of Eden was the last thing on my mind that day. I would have stayed and fought in Solomon's Temple for a lifetime if it meant keeping Kadar alive. If giving Robert that goddamned golden trinket could have saved my brother, I would happily have left it at his feet."

He sighs. "I think Al Mualim suspected as much. He was so surprised to see me returned alive to Masyaf—especially with the Apple, especially when you failed so spectacularly. He expected me to stay behind, to stay with Kadar. I could have protected my brother, or died with him, or…I could have _stayed_."

"Malik," Altair says, "What happened to Kadar was not your fault. You did what you could—"

"I don't want to hear another pitying _lecture_," Malik snaps. "Not about my brother. Not from you."

"I did not intend to—"

"You fled. You didn't have to watch him die. You thought losing your rank was such a burden, but you've never had to truly suffer. I won't stand to be lectured by you. Not when _you_ are the reason my brother is dead."

The injured man falls silent. His body shakes with the strain of his rage, and he rubs at the stump of his left arm with the bandaged mess of his fingers. Altair watches his jaw clench, and is silent.

There is a pause.

"That was cruel," Malik says softly.

"You don't have to apologize."

"I wasn't." The _Dai_ shifts so that he is all but lying down. Exhaustion radiates from his every movement, from the dark smudging under his eyes. "When I said that day in the Bureau that I forgave you, I meant it," he says. "As much as I am able to, I have forgiven you. The Altair I used to know has changed a great deal. He's no less infuriating, but…" A slight smile, this time without bitterness. "I think I can stand this new master assassin. I think I can respect him, anyway."

Altair waits.

Malik shuts his eyes. "But I don't want him trying to comfort me over Kadar. Not now. Perhaps never. What happened in Solomon's Temple was my lesson to learn, and I don't want him to take it away."

"He's taken enough," Altair agrees. "Brother, you are tired. We should finish this discussion another time."

"Mm." Malik does not open his eyes as the assassin moves for the door. "Don't you have other missions to complete? You cannot hang around here forever."

"Probably not, no." Altair pulls the door open. He glances over his shoulder and shrugs. "But that is hardly your concern."

Malik scoffs: "You are an ass," he says. Altair smirks.

(He closes the door behind him, careful to prevent its making any sort of noise, and it is to his credit that his hands shake only slightly as he slips away.)


	13. Epilogue

AN: Finally, the last chapter (srsly). A warning for content: though I doubt anyone reading this besides **skywalker05** dislikes slash, seeing as how this is in fact a slash fanfic, the summary did promise subtleness and this epilogue did, er. Break that promise rather more than I'd expected it to at first. There's no sex, and the rating is still in the T range! I fully admit that this chapter is probably out of character as hell. I mean, the time period AC takes place in just does not make it easy for there to be canon same-sex hookups. Apparently I've become that horrid yaoi fangirl who slashes everyone with everyone else…but at least I _know_ I'm going to fanfiction hell when I die.

How do people actually manage to write full-blown same-sex smut, anyway? There aren't enough pronouns!

In all seriousness, thanks so much for the wonderful comments, favs, alerts, etc. I had a hell of a good time writing this, and all the support really played a huge part in that. A special thank you for those awesome people who reviewed every single chapter (or close to it)-much love!

**_

* * *

_**

**_Epilogue _**

And three days later word reaches the small house underneath the skinny tree that King Richard of the Christians has gathered with his army in Arsuf. Saladin's forces are not far behind. Altair knows he must reach Arsuf before the two leaders have a chance to be swayed by whatever Templar elements Robert left behind.

So he sends a second informer to report back to Al Mualim, brow furrowed with the knowledge that he rides to prolong conflict, not to end it. It seems backwards that he, as an assassin, as a man who willingly bears the weight of murder in exchange for the safety of the land, should want to ensure the continuation of an already endless war. Everything has been twisted, these last few months. The Templars he has killed were united for a cause they swore was just. Al Mualim speaks in puzzles; his eyes are fixed on lumps of gold, gilded Apples that have already been the downfall of many men. Now Altair—of all people, _Altair_—will be a fresh wellspring of poison between Christian and Muslim armies.

It does not feel right. An assassin must always bend to his senses, and Altair's are telling him that there is something festering, just out of his line of sight. Something dangerous.

_Someone had to betray us._

But there are other things on Altair Ibn-La'Ahad's mind the day he leaves for Arsuf. The sun is already high by the time he is ready to depart—it was foolish to delay this long, and now he will be riding through the worst of the day's heat.

Altair turns and walks back to the hut.

The first room is dark as ever, hot as ever; Malik's men bustle around, preparing themselves for the coming return to Jerusalem, and as ever they ignore him. Altair strides for the far door and lets himself in without bothering to knock. He is fully armed, but his cowl rests around his shoulders.

(Altair has never been quite as comfortable without his cowl; with his brown hair showing he tends to feel exposed, denuded, a bird without its crown feathers. It's for the same reason that he wears his robes even when not on duty: they brush at the backs of his knees, familiar rectrices to keep him stabilized.

Cowl or no, he is never very comfortable around Malik. In some ways he will always be defenseless.)

Malik is fully dressed and out of bed; with his back to the door he is rearming himself with throwing knives. There are at least a dozen of those knives scattered on the bed, but the _Dai_ finds room for them all, hidden in his sleeves and beneath his robes. With his bandages covered up, he almost seems healed—but his movements are halting, and he bends slightly as he works. Several times his fingers fumble a dagger, and he lets out a soft curse.

Altair watches without saying anything. After a few moments, Malik sighs.

"How long are you going to stand there?" he asks without turning around.

"Am I in the way?"

"Of course. You always are."

Altair leans against the wall behind him, arms folded. "Should you be on your feet so soon?"

"So soon? It's been over a week. How much patience for idle nothing do you think I have?" Finally, he turns to face the assassin. "King Richard and Saladin will meet on the battlefield in a matter of days. You should be in Arsuf right now, Brother."

"I leave today," Altair says. "Within the hour. I came here only to—"

"To what?" Malik looks at him, dark eyes calm and waiting. His words are light, almost taunting. "You know, I am still waiting to have last week's events lauded over my head. Go ahead and boast, it's obvious you want to." He smiles. "Truthfully, I would expect nothing less from you." *

"Should I always bend to your expectations?" Altair asks with a quirk of his eyebrow. "I have no interest in being predictable."

"We have spent too much time together, I think." Malik glances back at the remaining daggers on the bed, as if disinterested. _He is a good actor,_ Altair decides. _He gives so little of himself away._

"Go to Arsuf and stay there for a while," Malik says. "A year or so without your insufferable presence should make up for this past…"

He turns and Altair is there, hands grabbing his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises and teeth closing against his neck in what isn't a kiss but a bite. Malik falls back against the wall, eyes wide; he lets out a startled gasp as Altair presses him there and leans in, close as he can. This should be unnatural—having a simple, civil conversation with the _Dai_ is almost impossible, so _this_ should feel bizarre—

But it doesn't, really. In the end, pushing Malik up against the wall and leaving red marks along the side of his neck is just another type of strength, just another assassin's instinct to obey. Strange how it's laid dormant so many years, strange how little Altair understands it: but he doesn't _have_ to understand it now, held in thrall by what sings in his blood. These urges are another part of him; he does not need to know why they exist, and at this point he does not care. It's with confidence that he smirks into Malik's unblinking eyes.

Force, he understands. The passion that rises in the heat of battle, he understands. What this is—whether it might not be born of darker, uglier things than he realizes now—no longer matters at all. With his left hand braced against the wall, he lowers his right to the front of the other man's chest.

Malik grabs that wrist and starts to twist it loose, but stops. He licks his lips, arched back against the wall; somewhere along the way Altair's leg pushed its way between Malik's two, and the assassin can feel the _Dai _radiating tense energy against him, all taut muscle and throbbing pulse.

"Idiot." Malik's voice is so hoarse it almost chokes off the words. "You will reopen the wound." He pushes at Altair's wrist again, but without much force. "What in God's name…"

Altair lowers his left hand, brings it to Malik's chest and then to his neck, smirking afresh to feel his heart racing. "If this offends you, push me off," he says, the challenge evident in his voice.

Malik doesn't move. He's practically holding his breath. "If it offends me?" he manages. "You are a madman. I'm no _woman_, Altair."

"I know that." The assassin studies the other man's incredulous face. "You've forgotten what you said in the fortress. I'd assumed as much…"

"What I-…" Malik's eyes widen even further. "Enough of your games, what did I say?"

"Well, if you've forgotten…" Altair shrugs. He expects the _Dai_ to rise angrily to the taunt, but to his surprise Malik settles back against the wall and offers the assassin a small smirk of his own.

"I'm not going to beg you," he says. "Keep your secrets, if you must." He grabs at the hand against his chest again. "It doesn't change the fact that you are insane. Most men would stone you for this."

Altair's eyes flash. "I'm not concerned with what most men would do." He lowers his head. His mouth brushes against the fresh bite marks on Malik's neck; the injured man shivers as he breathes out, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

"You…of all people, lecturing me on the creed…" Malik swallows. Altair watches his jaw work. "I still don't think you know what it actually _means_, Brother." And then—because Altair hears the edge in his voice and wants to taste it—he presses his mouth against Malik's in what is finally a kiss.

He keeps his eyes open. So does Malik.

_A dare,_ the assassin realizes. And this is a good thing, a reassuring thing: Malik has never been weak.

When they pull apart Altair slides back to the center of the room, arms crossed. The other man lowers himself to the edge of the bed, still breathing hard. He rubs at his side for a moment. Then he looks up at the assassin and raises an eyebrow.

"Is _that_ why you've not yet left for Arsuf?" he asks. "If so, you're an even bigger novice then I thought."

Altair smirks a bit. "I had other reasons. Don't be so arrogant." Malik gives him a look that can only be described as frightening, and he continues rather quickly: "I had time to consider what you said the day you woke. About someone within the Brotherhood being disloyal."

"And?"

"And…for months now, Al Mualim has spoken to me in riddles, hinting at great secrets but expecting me to discover them on my own."

"He always has put great faith in your abilities," Malik comments. "He's never doubted that you deserve to be his successor."

There is fresh discomfiture here, and Altair treads carefully to avoid it. "The master and I are the only ones without that doubt," he says as if in complaint.

"Not the only ones," Malik says, expressionless. "So? Continue, Altair. What do Al Mualim's secrets have to do with our potential traitor?"

"I think he already knows of whatever deceit led to all this. He turned it into another one of his tests…"

"And let the Jerusalem Bureau fall as a result? Don't be ridiculous. It is his duty as master to protect the Brotherhood, not let it come to harm just so he can experiment with his favorite assassin."

Altair studies the clean stump of his ring finger. After a moment, he says, "A year ago I would never have questioned Al Mualim's actions, but…it has been a strange few months."

He pauses. The words, as always, refuse to come. "Either way, I'll deal with this traitor. I assume you'll rest here for a while—"

But Malik cuts him off with a brusque shake of his head. "I didn't join the Brotherhood to laze around. One more week. Then I will return to Jerusalem and attend to my duties."

Altair doesn't bother to hide his surprise: "Malik, you've been _stabbed_."

"Thank you for reminding me. I surely would have forgotten without your _beloved_ attendance." The look the _Dai_ gives the assassin is hard, and unwavering. It gives Altair no opening to break through. "You'll have to share some of the coming glory, for once."

_Some of the coming danger,_ Altair wants to argue, but he knows better than anyone the insult in those words; he keeps silent, frowning, in the wake of promised tumult.

(Traitors and riddles: there will be violent times ahead.)

"So, Master Assassin," Malik says, and his gaze does not waver from Altair's face: he has had a lifetime's practice in accepting his fate. "What is it you would have me do?"

"Dangerous questions," the assassin mutters. The injured man rolls his eyes. "For now, only keep your ears open to the gossip around you."

"I gather information while you charge blindly ahead."

"I keep the enemy distracted while you learn what you can." Altair pauses a moment, then purses his lips and says it anyway: "This is not some minor official, some easy kill. I will need all the information you can give me, and you will need time to work."

Malik smiles. His voice is perfectly calm. "Are you saying you'll _protect_ me?" he almost purrs.

A challenge.

Altair brushes it aside with a wave of his hand. "You hardly need it," he says. "But surely it is better to work together than apart."

"Surely." Malik rises back to his feet. The two men look at each other, and are quiet: there is nothing else to say.

Or rather, there is nothing else they _can_ say. Altair remembers the heat of Malik's breath against his skin and is almost tempted to—not that it matters. Let it keep to the shadows, let it be another bit of himself to hide away. Let the secrets remain intact: it would be impossible to explain it all, and Altair does not trust the words.

He is an assassin. His path is a strict one, soaked in blood.

"Safety and peace," he says, and turns for the door. "I apologize in advance for the next time we meet."

Perhaps Malik says something in response; Altair does not hear him if he does. He leaves the bedroom, brushing by the three men in the first room for the last time. He opens the front door, and sunlight blinds him—

Then he squints, and the brown-green world comes back into focus: his steps as he walks through the afternoon heat are steady and sure. The guards have readied his horse, and he swings his legs onto the saddle without a thought for the tinge of pain the motion brings. Gripping the reins, Altair turns his horse toward Arsuf. He nudges it into a walk, then reaches for his cowl and pulls it back into place. The road curls out in front of him, no doubt hiding soldiers and refugees, distractions behind every twist…

Altair urges the horse into a gallop. He is ready, and he does not look back.

**_End_**


End file.
